For Your Applause
by TheResurrectionist
Summary: It was said they were the greatest pair of serial killers to ever walk the earth, and the game of fire and blood between them was legendary. Dark!Sam and Dark!Dean, mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

A/N Hey everyone! This plot bunny twitched its nose at me the other night, and with some help from Angelicaldevil, it's here for your enjoyment today. Mature themes may live below, but nothing too graphic. I hope you enjoy!

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It's never been fully reasoned out.

The intents, the purposes, the drive. No scientist ever stood up with an explanation to rationalize away everything. No therapist could ever track down the sickness to one gene, to one social aspect. Killing was a reflection of humanity most people shattered on instinct, and yet some people took a second look.

Some people _reveled._

Sam and Dean Winchester were history, legend and myth mixed in with tales of horror and gore. Some said they were brothers, others lovers (Some said both) Experts theorized that they were the deepest of friends, bond reaching past the labels society placed upon them. They were eerily codependent, even on separate sides of the country.

Rumors spread faster than they should've, overtaking America until the Winchesters were just as common as the ghost stories today's children seemed to love.

Truth was, no one truly knew a lot about the Winchesters, save the few spotty documentaries and occasional news report. Not to say that the public didn't know every single fact about the pair—news channels and blogs loved to spread the fire that was Winchester. 'America's next Bonny and Clyde' and 'The Most Dangerous Pair' flared across headlines in various moderation. Who'd done what now, what building had crumbled to the ground beneath Sam's rage, whose girlfriend (or boyfriend, they weren't picky) had been taken, mutilated and left cradled in the arms of a stone angel in a cemetery.

The media ate the Winchesters up, but the greatest bit of it all ended up being that they didn't know a _thing_ about them.

Dean first appeared on the FBI's radar when he was seventeen, young, pretty and intense but not immediately alarming. He'd shot a cop while driving, speeding down the street in a car that _growled_ with a bleeding younger brother (some said his younger lover) in the backseat. The tale went he simply leaned backwards and fired the shot over his shoulder, intent for all purposes to receive help for his brother-lover-partner.

Some say he hit the cop right in the center of the forehead. Some said he shot out both eyes.

He got away, surprisingly. Slipped from the hospital room with Sam in tow barely an hour after receiving medical attention. The FBI kept their eye on the name, though.

Dean Winchester. What a mistake letting him go had been.

Sam killed his first man when he was nineteen, as far as the FBI could tell, bashed a man to death against a brick wall behind a sleazy bar. According to some sources he did it for the blood. Others say he watched the man collapse, letting a heart attack unfold just to see the man die.

Nobody really knows how the two names got linked, but it was always the same. SamandDean. DeanandSam. Never together in body yet connected by name and spirit.

The FBI didn't make the connection until a few years into Sam's game. On one end of the country a fire would appear like no other, a fire where everyone inside was already dead. As if he were saying, 'Hey, look over here!'

Within the week, on the opposite side of the country, another crime would respond. 'Top this,' it would say with every bullet, every child found dead and every town razed.

Top _this._

Once the public found out, the shows got grander. The FBI was waiting, waiting for them to slip up, to fire a shot too loud and finally be captured and put away forever. Agents were posted in every major city, waiting. Waiting.

It never happened.

In the summer of 2010, Sam fell off the grid. Dean's fires continued, bars lighting up and motels burning down furiously. 'Where are you?!' They seemed to scream. The sick dance that had intrigued so many seemed to have been coming to an end.  
Dean Winchester shot up a shopping mall three months after Sam disappeared. Sources say someone shot back, someone tall and dark and fluid on the third floor with just as much skill. An argument between the two would be biblical, but every man and woman in America thanked their lucky stars the following week.

Sam set fire to a diner full of preschool kids that next Wednesday. It cried 'Hello!' with so much passion the memorials seemed almost trivial comparatively. Plastic, cellophaned roses and daffodils were bland next to the roaring fire of Sam's response, a scream to Dean that was echoed back every time, a new response for every cry.  
Sam was back. Sam was back and secretly, at night when desires and secrets came out, the FBI was relieved. Dean set fires again but the fervor had died down-as much as the fire that was the Winchesters could.

His call had been answered, and the jealousy abated. DeanandSam. SamandDean. Playing the game of the century across the continental US, uncaring, uncontrollable, a game for just each other.

They never seemed to work together, though all the experts and guest speakers and politicians (and neighbors and bloggers and _everyone_) agreed they would have been more formidable (Read: terrifying) if they had. Sam's skills laid in the extreme violence, the cold-as-ice shootings and homemade bombs that never, ever failed. He was the mind, the master, the partner.

Yet where Sam was the brains, Dean was the power, the revv behind the perfect engine and the hand of the mind. His fires burned like no other, passionate, and inexplicably beautiful. Every building burned and crumbled under his will, the perfect complement to Sam's cool, rational fury.

Separate they were magic, and nobody wanted to find out what they were together. And so, the fires and the shootings continued. The hostages were taken and the bodies were found. Always in the cemetery, always above a woman's grave.  
Some nutjob on CNN claimed it was a tribute to their dead mother. "Above a grave named Mary." She'd argue. It was how they paid homage.

Thing was, no one could ever be completely sure. A character analysis from a week ago couldn't fit whatever crime this week produced. A diagram used for ages couldn't predict Dean's next move, couldn't predict Sam's next response.

SamandDean. In the end, maybe no one would ever know.

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A/N Don't forget to leave a review!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Taking a page out of if-llamas-could-fly's book as I start yet another grueling year of school. Small, (hopefully) frequent updates and a quiet prayer for reviews. Hopefully I'll survive :)

Thanks to my beta who keeps me sane. Seriously.

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Sam let himself get caught in October of 2012, putting the game of the century on hold indefinitely.

Some said he was bored (God forbid) Small parts of the media chalked it up to old age and declining skill. Sam and Dean weren't the young, vicious twenty-year olds they'd been mere years ago. They were moving on in age, like a sharp blade honed over years to perfection with just the SMALLEST crack of wear in the temper. They'd slip up sooner or later. It was inevitable.

They said he smiled as the FBI led him away, but no one knew why. Or dared to.

October was the first in-depth glimpse the world had gotten of the murderer that'd horrified and inspired in equal measure. The media blazed and parties sprang up across the country in celebration. Those at the top of the food chain were scrambling within minutes to question him-to see and _comprehend_ what pure madness must be.

Sam Winchester was an enigma, and the top psychologists lackeyed desperately to see him from all around the world. He and his partner were the mental find of the century-and the chance to study him was one in a million. To have Dean _and_ Sam would've been a miracle, and a dark wish in the minds of those who wanted more than just to talk with the pair.

Story goes the man who finally got to speak with Sam (A professor from Harvard named William, Willy will willy, do Tell, William) went mad after ten minutes alone in the interview room. Cracked like a baby, crying out in fear and pain for comfort.

Rumor went Sam didn't even speak. William's plan of silent contemplation was thrown back into his face with a big, nonverbal _fuck you_.

Sam turned eyesfromhell onto William and there hadn't been a chance before the doctor entered the room. He ran almost exactly at the ten minute mark, bolting from the room like a Hellhound was on his heels.

No one could decide what color his eyes were. Blue, then hazel, green one moment like Dean's when he was excited (And black when he was angry). Yellow in the strangest of lights, vivid and maddening.

Madness like that was catching, they said. And Sam Winchester was most definitely mad.

After Anderson ran out of the room security was doubled. Past, of course, the already tripled security in place (The FBI were no fools)

But they couldn't predict what was coming for them, turning a blind eye as the celebrations continued, rejoicing prematurely. Dean was a shoved-aside-put-on-the-back-burner kind of thought. They had captured _Sam Winchester._

They didn't predict the pattern the Winchester boys had ingrained in the minds of millions, failing to comprehend yet again the way it _had_ to be.

SamandDean. Always.

They should've, seeing as the Winchesters' whole song and dance revolved around each other, irrevocably, intrinsically permanent. Dean had been left partnerless, and like the last time Sam had left, he wasn't happy.

Instead of doing what everyone predicted him to do (Kill, maim, _destroy_, maybe tear another building down, and what was that in the grand scheme of things?) he turned around and _screamed_ in every sense of the word. Past the calls they'd exchanged, past the fervor of loneliness. It was the scream of revenge at its finest, and this time no one was ready.

Not three days after Sam was taken Dean tore the whole complex apart by himself, shooting, climbing and tearing his way to Sam. The only footage able to be salvaged was part horrifying, part revealing and chilling to the bone.

Dean and Sam weren't rivals or enemies. Oh, far from it. They were more, more than partners in a game, unbeknownst to the FBI, more than a brother-lover-partner.

Fifty people died that day, and if the FBI licked its wounds (And pride) the next few months, Sam and Dean didn't seem to notice. They left enough carnage in their wake to satisfy weeks of their game.

_"I have no words,"_ One witness from the complex murders reportedly said. _"I should, but I don't. I've lost that._

_"That's what they took from me. I pray to god I find it one day."_

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A/N More to come soon! Tell me what you thought!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Another short update. My notes are deleting themselves and it's driving me crazy. I lost 10k of drafts today. Does anyone know how to fix this? Anway, please enjoy this small chapter.

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There's a hotline to call if you spot them.

Of course, it's ninety-nine point fucking nine percent inaccurate.

Not to say, of course, that the Winchesters aren't busy. Dean's newest present for Sam was found three days after christmas, abandoned in a cemetery with a rose clutched in hand. Sam shot up a bar in texas with exactly twenty bullets (though no one's really sure how) in response. They're not bored, thank god, but their entertainment comes at only a slightly lesser cost.

It's a little gruesome to think the Winchester's watch people die instead of Saturday Night Live, trades toys for knives and bullets long before America knew their names. It's nearly impossible to comprehend, their type of madness, three steps above sentient and climbing fast.

The office that runs the emergency line is swamped daily with false sightings, full of crank calls and psychics looking for a successful scam. There's been a reward for a few years now, growing with each school toppled and each motel razed. No luck, though. No one's ever really spotted them, or enough of them to be useful.

They're far from ghosts though-when a Winchester does something, it isn't subtle. Even Sam's coldest killings were his, marked and claimed and _owned_, unmistakably Winchester in every sense of the word.

Better a bad nightmare than a reality, though. Better a false sighting than a real one, to the lament of the FBI.

There's a good hundred calls a day. _I swear I just saw the tall one a few blocks down. Yeah, brown hair, longish. Looked threatening. No officer, I saw him with my own eyes. Black car, right? Something oldish? Yeah, down by that diner on thirtieth. I swear._

It got to the point where brown-haired men with something even resembling longish hair stayed home, where tall men couldn't walk together without stares. Tall, yes. The Winchesters were tall. They towered in more ways than one.

Somewhere in Alabama a man got beaten to death three blocks from Sam's latest conquest, a preschool Dean had looked at months ago and shot the windows out of. He came to finish the job, razing the place and moving on, following a pattern only he and Dean knew. His game here was finished.

The man they beat to death had three kids. He'd just walked out of work on the way to the birth of another when they grabbed him. A tragedy, they said. A mix up no one could've seen coming. Looked just a little too much like Sam Winchester. Walked just a little too fast.

They couldve looked a little closer, but desperation was a fickle thing. Faces tended to blur when buildings burned and children screamed. Features tended to be forgotten or overlooked when the solution seemed so easy. A wallet bulge looked like a gun in just the right light. Suspicion rose, and the town that was tired of tricks and death rose with it.

They wanted blood, and to (arguably fairly) end the death omen (SamandDean) that had descended on their town. Maybe with this one death, they'd end Sam, and with him Dean.

Winchesters tended to hide in plain sight more often than they stayed hidden, though.

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A/N More coming soon, hopefully sooner if I can get my Apple product working. Lemme know what you think! :)


	4. Chapter 4

A/n So, another short one. Did I mention how crazy school is? Well, yeah. :( Thanks to Filichino13 and to my beta as always.

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In Mexico, they're known as the brujos. The shadow-men killers who steal and destroy in the name of each other, tearing the world apart without a thought for the damage they wreak. Their blood is fire and their love is infinite, a bond stretched and pulled and never, ever broken.

The story goes one rides a black horse seven stories high, cursed to trail after his brother-lover for eternity through fire and death. Where they go, death follows, and it's enough for most to put two and two together.

They're butchers and travelers and killers with a thousand names, blessed with the faces of angels and the will of devils. They are muerte and querido and the things even nightmares can't hold to. Their names are a curse, uttered by the foolish and feared by the wise.

They're _magic_, the stories of old returning and raving against the unholy, as inhuman as the chupacabra of the night. The brother-lovers mete out justice with a fiery sword, a bright flame of decision that cuts indiscriminately. Through the beloved children, through the women. Through buildings and towns, leaving villages shattered in their wake in their eternal quest for each other.

They travel and live the land like they were born there, vagabond souls with ties to no one but each other. Down there they're not murderers, they're angeles de la muerte, gods with will and wrath that freezes even the bravest man.

Love is a dream among many, a thousand facets and stories that would take lifetimes to tell and only one to experience, yet theirs is wordless. Theirs is the love of legends, the love of two terrible gods caught in a torment that even the wisest can't comprehend.

There is no revenge-call when the shots ring out, nor anguish when the smell of flesh appears. Instead, the people bow their heads in respect.

A love like that is closer to heaven than any of them would ever get.

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A/N What did you think? Hopefully more soon!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N Thanks to my fabulous (Now Legit!) Beta, Angelicaldevil, who rocks the world with her awesomeness. Here's a long chapter for you, so I hope everyone enjoys. if-llamas-could-fly, go check your PM inbox! :)

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The man at the bar deals cards as he laughs, eyes glinting in the low light of the room. There's a group gathered around already, though it's nearly past one, giggling and watching as he stares down every other player in the circle.

It's a country kinda poker, but the man's almost too pretty for it, eyes sharp as he chews obscenely on his lip, pondering his hand. Even the men are transfixed, barely keeping an eye on their own cards as the game continues.

It was eleven when they started, ten players each with a start of two hundred a piece. Six men dropped since then, bowing out to the bar in order to watch further.

It's intimidating, the low, near-silent slide of cards over the table and the clink of chips. No one knows the mystery man's name, but his face is pretty and he hasn't lost yet, and that's enough.

Half an hour later two other men leave, throwing in their chips with a pat to the last regular's shoulder as they take their place at the bar. The mystery man cocks an eyebrow at him, expressionless.

_Wanna make this a little more interesting?_ He says, and it's the first time he's truly spoken the whole night. Everyone leans in to the smoky baritone, transfixed at the slide of honey over gravel.

_Sure._ The regular drawls, three beers down and cocky as ever. He slides his ring off, throwing it down on the pile of chips in the middle._ I got me a woman back home, pretty as can be. My most precious gem, and one I won't lose either._

_That so._ The man's eyebrow raises again, mouth twitching into a smirk. _I got a girl like that._ He tosses a pair of keys onto the table, daring the regular to object.

_Oh yeah? And where's this girl at, boy?_ The crowd murmurs in amusement, curious.

The man gestured with his head, a short nod to the window._ Chevy Impala, a black one. Best year too, if you ask me, she's all I got._

The regular's mouth tightens, but he sends a man out to look at it. He comes back whistling, and the deal is struck.

_Game on, hot shot._ He tells the man, grinning around the mouth of his beer. _You deal._

They play for another half hour, crowd cheering occasionally, but they stay silent as the game goes on, feeling the tension grow as the two men play and deal, lose and win.

_All or nothing._

_You've got yourself a deal, old man._

_Who you calling' old?_ The man sputters a little, pride sneakily undermined at the last second.

_You._

He sneers. _We'll see who starts callin' names when I win, boyo._

They stay silent as the staring continues. The mystery man plays his cards close to the vest, watching the room with flinty green eyes. His face grows even more angular as the lights flicker, youthful with the promise of just that much more.

The crowd loves it, even if they're not sure what "it" is. The tension, the energy, all from this one man. It's astounding.

_Call._ The regular's poker face slips as a smile breaks out on his face._ I got you beat, boy, and I get your car too._

This time both eyebrows go up, but the man says nothing. A quick nod gestures for him to go on. The regular flattens his cards on the table as cheers and snickers break out.

He's got mystery man beaten with one of the best hands, four of a kind proudly displayed and nigh on impossible to beat. Nobody watches the other man as the regular celebrates, standing up to retrieve his pot.

He's stopped by a quick hand on his wrist as the whole crowd goes silent. No one saw the other man move but suddenly he's there, whip-fast as he twists to release his keys from the man's hand.

_Not so fast. Didn't ya ever hear it was rude to celebrate before the other man gets to show his cards?_

_Like you've got me beat. What are you hiding, a Royal?_

The man smirks. _You wouldn't believe me if I showed you._ He flicks his cards out, laying them on the center of the table for everyone to see. A Royal Flush sits there, unexpected.

The regular's face goes from red to an ugly, mottled shade in the space of a few seconds as he looked down at the cards in disbelief, lips moving soundlessly as he reads them.

_You've gotta be kidding me. You cheated!_

The man folds his arms._ Didn't cheat no one._

_There's no way you could've gotten that hand without cheating! _

_It's called skill._ The mystery man drawls, reaching a hand forward for the turned-over pot. He smirks, lips curving into a malicious smile. _Sorry about the money, but I'll leave the wife. Something to look forward to, hmm?_

_You get your hands away from there._ The regular shouts, face contorted and nearly purple, a vein bulging near his temple. The crowd starts to rumble with uneasiness as the mystery man's leather jacket parts, revealing the butt of a gun.

_Never did tell you my name, did I?_

_I don't give a damn about your name. I want my hard earned money. Now._

_Lemme give you a hint at least. I don't wanna make it too hard on ya._

He slides a hand forward on the table, grabbing the keys._ Sixty-seven Chevy Impala?_

There's a murmur, and the mood of the night turns sickly. They know who drives a Chevy Impala, maybe almost as well as they know their own names. But it can't be true, because that would mean-

_You're telling me_ you're_ Dean Winchester?_ The regular lets out a hoot at that, throwing his head back. _What'da you do, grab a car like his and play pretend on the weekends? Chase...,whas' isname...Sam?_ He cackles again, but the people around him edge back as the mystery man's mouth tightens at the name.

_Dean Winchester's a legend, son._ He spits, face twisting back into a snarl as he puts his hands down on the table in front of him. _Now gimme my money before I make your night worse than it has to be._

The man (Dean?) raises his eyebrows again, but the gesture isn't as lighthearted as before. _Don't believe me?_

Quick as lightning the gun's in his hands and the mirror above the bar is shattered, the echo of the shot leaving the room frozen. Before anyone can blink the regular's on the ground with a bullet in each arm, blood seeping score he even hits the floor.

The room is silent as Dean Winchester steps forward, slides the money into his pocket with the practiced ease of, well, a criminal. The worst kind.

_Just lookin' for a game of cards._ He nearly murmurs, a grim smile evident as he gazes down at the injured regular._ Guess it was too much to ask, though._ He flips something silver in the air. It lands on the regular's chest wit a soft thump.

_Tell that girl of yours Dean Winchester says hello. Woulda been mighty fine to meet her, but I got stuff to do._

No one stops him as he stalks out the door, prowling like a cat on the balls of his feet, daring anyone to come after him. The bartender throws a couple rags over the bar hurriedly, pressing down on the bullet holes amid the silence.

Across the country a blonde presses her chest into a man as he walks by the alley, inviting pleasure with a quick roll of her hips.

_Whatcha looking for, mister? Leave them, come stay with me. I'll help you. Why so earnest, huh?_

A gun shot rings out between the walls of the alley and she drops like a weight, expression of surprise frozen on her face, now missing a lot of its structure seeing as the bullet punched a hole the size of a potato through it.

_Oh, don't worry, I'm not looking._ Sam flicks the blood off his jacket with a pleasant expression on his face as he makes his way down the street, polite as ever.

_Just waiting for someone._

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A/N Leave me a review? What did you think?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N Another plot bunny that twitched its nose at me. A little dark, I'll have to admit, but once again I hope you enjoy. Thanks as always to my beta and to everyone who reviewed. You make school bearable!:)

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Every summer they burn the sky as the sun blazes, hot on their backs as the fire burns their hands, chaps their faces like a caress.

It's the one night a year they spend together, and even the word sounds alien to them. _Together_. Like they should be, even though they're not. Because they can't, not for those other three hundred and sixty-four solonglonelyalone days. They _can't_.

But this day they have. A touch here, a brush of skin against skin or even the sound of a heart beating. It's worth more than a thousand days apart, worth the struggle and the wait. The presence of an equal is like riding on the highest of highs, and even the short twenty four hours seems like a lifetime.

For her they save the town, drag the sleeping ones out and lay them to rest. They save the children and women too, and their faces never looked more peaceful as the fire licks around them. The sunset is like an ember low in the sky, but their fire is a thousand times brighter and it burns _hot._

The sweet smell from the bodies distracts Sam, makes the want in his eyes grow that much more, and they're moving on to their next stop before Dean can stop him. He feels it like Sam does, low and curling in the pit of his stomach, and the night calls. It's a two part trip, and their day is already half-done with.

Sam's got her picked out weeks ahead this time, and they've both spent the last three weeks watching, catching only the sensation of each other as they circle the town. Sam seemed content this time, pleased even, and the second Dean sees her the fire from before springs back to life in his chest. He can see the same blaze reflected in Sam's eyes as they wordlessly pounce, the importance of the night (_One night, Sammy_) weighing heavily on both of them.

Up close, she's not as close of a match, but the eyes, the eyes are what get Dean. Always have. Sam picked well. Her eyes are green like memory and young with innocence, and they both pause justasecond to look.

Pink lips shape a scream as Dean grabs her, but Sam cradles her in his arms quickly and she goes limp, hands curling into his shirt before they fall. Dean can see the love in Sam's eyes as he looks down at her, feels it like a second sense next to his own in his heart. He wants to stay like this forever, maybe, but they're on the open street and the Impala's still running behind the alley wall. With a quick nod from Sam they load her up, gently laying her across the pillows Sam placed there earlier.

Dean brushes a blonde curl back into place before he accelerates, feeling the energy of the night twist just a little. He sees the same mournful expression on Sam's face, but it's what they have to do. It just is.

The flowers are still there when the Impala rolls down the path. Night fell minutes ago, and under the cover of darkness the grave looks even softer.

The scent of the white lilies nearly catches him as he opens the door for Sam, but he's careful not to make a single mistake as they maneuver out of the car. Together they walk forward, Sam laden down and Dean with a blanket.

He takes her from Sam as they get close, and by now she's cold, colder than the chilly air. It's wrong, but he's going to fix this. It just takes a moment, but sometimes it's the longest of the whole year.

He lays her down without much trouble, taking the traded blanket from Sam and wrapping her in it quickly. He stands next to Sam when she's comfortable, his partnerloverequal in everything, and silence falls with the finality of something otherworldly. The stone angel above them looks on, guarding the grounds with the fierceness of life.

_All for the world and enough for me_ Sam murmurs, bowing down to kiss her cheek before continuing the poem._ Love, life and family._

Dean sees the tears in his eyes as he gathers the flowers around her, laying the rose across her chest with a slim, elegant hand. His lover is never _this_ with anybody but him, had been shot and tortured without tears. But _now_, he shares now with Sam and salt stings his own eyes before he even realizes it's his turn.

Sam's a soft presence at his back as he kneels, kissing her forehead, cradling her head as tears run down his face. The ache sharpens inside of him, and he can't bear to let go. He draws the goodbye out, knows the price and is willing to pay it in an instant. Sam kneels next to him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He slides into him, feeling the warmth of Sam and the coolness of her forehead simultaneously. The kiss turns desperate, and Dean turns his head away before she has to see him like this, so needy for Sam it's like an addiction.

They're both red eyed when it ends, but it doesn't matter. Dean reaches a hand out, brushing against her eyelids to cover those green eyes. She looks at rest between the flowers, and the sight of it nearly chokes him up again before he smiles suddenly. Sam lays his head on Dean's shoulder as they watch her sleep, another year completed. He whispers the last sentence of the evening, Sam joining him perfectly as they stand to leave.

_Happy Birthday, Mom._

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A/N What did you think? Leave me a review!:)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N So this is a parallel to the first chapter I wrote, stemming from the idea of Sam "falling off the grid". This appealed to me last night and boom! It was written, and hopefully you enjoy. Thanks to my beta Angelicaldevil as always, who is made of awesome sauce, and to everyone who reviewed, because it really makes my day!:)

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_In the summer of 2010, Sam fell off the grid. Dean's fires continued, bars lighting up and motels burning down furiously. 'Where are you?!' They seemed to scream. The sick dance that had intrigued so many seemed to have been coming to an end.  
Dean Winchester shot up a shopping mall three months after Sam disappeared. _

* * *

He's past desperation by the time he enters the mall, and every step through the plastic displays pushes him that much closer to the edge, close enough to see the bottom and want more for once in his life.

There's nowhere left for him to go, and his endless playground leaves him unsettled, twitchy like a caged animal. What would've helped three weeks ago is past unsatisfying, leaves him trembling in anxiety between the nights.

It's been months. Weeks. Days. It's all added up in his mind, numbers blaring neon-green in his eyes every other second like every other failure in life. But this one is the worst, because Sam's

gone, Sam's gonegonegone and he isn't coming back. He's failed the one person he promised everything to, lost himself along the way.

Every brush with a stranger is another shattering hit, and every second of it feels like pain. Dean's breaking into a million pieces, but he's whole on the outside. People mill around him, going their separate ways like cattle, and Dean wants to _scream_.

The mall's full even for a Saturday, teens dragging each other around as young mothers look on With tired faces. The displays are bright with manufactured happiness, drawing the crowds like moths to a flame. Harried businessmen take a quicker pace than the rest of the crowds, weaving through the people like they have somewhere else to be.

Dean doesn't know where to be. Hasn't known for the first time in forever.

The fountain shines bright at the end of the mall, rising three stories in an impressive display of glass and architecture. It's the center of the whole mall, reflecting and bending the morning light like sugar around the room. People stop to stare at it every now and then, transfixed at the play of light and shadows around the plates of glass.

Dean hates it. The pettiness of it reaches him for a second, and he nearly scoffs. Something else was lost, someone ten times as worthy as the three by three panes of reflective glass. More worthy than grease-covered hands and cheap Kodak pictures. It's unfair beyond belief.

And yet, one is here, and the other isn't. And that's just how it is.

It's been months and _nothing_. There's no response, and even the brightest fires won't call Sam back to him. He'd destroy the world if it would bring him back, would start with the very thing people seemed to worship.

In a fit of anger he grabs his bag, taking the iron rod out of the bottom with hands shaking in anger. Shatters the bottom pane with one, desperate swing.

People start screaming, but the sound is caught between the tinkle of the falling glass around him. He smiles bitterly as he feels shards cut into his face, hoists the rod higher. Shoots the girl who stumbles into him with a quick draw of his gun, puts it back without a thought.

The second pane on the bottom shatters, and the glass is like memory as it falls around him, slices into his hands. Blood runs hot down his face like tears, carves into his skin, sinks below to where his heart remains, cold and empty but pounding with anger.

The third pane on the bottom half shatters even quicker than the first, crumbling like candy without the two supporting windows. Dean feels people move behind him but can't for the life of him stop. He beats the glass over and over again, willing to shatter the pieces until nothing but sand was left.

The mall's nearly empty when he finally turns around, people congregating near the exits in a panic to get out. Dean can see security in the corner, but they're far enough away that he doesn't care.

There's more blood on the floor than he thought there could be when he turns back around, coating the glass like a sickly red paint. He looks down in something akin to pride, bitterly amused by the marks in his skin.

He'll tear the whole thing down, shatter the entire mall and stomp on the pieces. Rip apart one of the largest public structures in the world and burn the remains. He'd go down with it if he had to, and it's something he'd never do, never do if Sam were-

He shakes his head, turns to climb the stairs when the panel above his head shatters above with a bang. He barely has time to recognize the sound of a gunshot before he's rolling out of the way, shielding his eyes as the story-high panes shatter where his head was two seconds ago.

After a minute the glass settles around him, and he can feel it in his hair, on his clothes, under his palms. Feels the shards crunch and dig into his hands as he gets to his hands and knees.

His whole body shakes as he stays there, trembling in a way it hasn't in twenty years. Footsteps echo as the glass splits between someone's feet as a gun is cocked, but the buzz has left and nothing remains. He can't even move his hands, adrenaline draining the rest of his will as it drags the strength from his body.

"Do it." He whispers to the rent-a-cop or whoever the hell was on security that day. The person pauses, kneels next to him in the glass like it's nothing. Places the gun to the side in seeming-surrender.

Hands circle his wrists and the shock that lances through his body is painful. Familiar fingers grab his, turning the palms over almost reverently as he gasps a breath, feels tears sting and threaten.

He can't look up, can't face the mirror that would reflect the pieces he'd broken himself into. The eyes the always knew how to break him into a million pieces and shove them back together again in ways beyond him.

Wordlessly, the hands draw his palms up, inching up the tanned skin and over the dark clothing, streaming it red, red like life and death and _doesn't he know he can't-_

His hands fit the cheekbones perfectly, leaving smears of red around the tip-tilted eyes. Sam says nothing, eyes baring the hint of sadness as he lets Dean hold him, watches him like he never left and it kills him, because Sam doesn't say _anything_-

A hand reaches into Dean's pocket before he can notice, and Sam deftly plucks out his gun, fingers like fire where they graze his chest. His hands drop like weights, leaving behind his claim in plasma across Sam's face as he eyes the gun.

He's not sure if any of this is real anymore, feeling his heart beat even faster as Sam stands, unfolding to his full height in an impressive display of grace as he kneels. The desperation returns as Sam raises the gun, but if Sam is here then it's okay, because it's Sam and Sam is here and he can't stop repeating that, _Sam is here Sam is here Sam is here_, closes his eyes and bows his head before the curiosity overtakes one last time and he looks up.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, all playful humor before he lowers the gun, placing it on the ground between them like a dare and does the last thing he'd ever expect his lover to do.

He's sprinting off before Dean can stop him, long legs covering distances in seconds as he heads for the stairs, pulling out his own gun.

Dean stands, screams for the first time, releasing the pain and the anguish in one burst. The gun's a dare he's willing (desperate) to take and he grabs it, fires three shots towards Sam in pure anger.

How dare he leave again. Again again again, his mind chants, he's leaving again, Dean...

Two shots come back in reply from somewhere on the third floor, and it nearly makes Dean's heart stop in relief. He takes off, blood slippery around the gun as he fires again, shattering displays as he chases his brother up the stairs like he'll never see him again.

Bullets have never been more of a promise.

* * *

A/N What did you think? Leave me a review below!:)


	8. Chapter 8

A/N This chapter got a little out of control, so I'm splitting it in half and posting the other part (hopefully) soon. You know the dirty pool trick where the author begs for reviews in order to post sooner? I may or may not be doing that right now:)

Thanks as always to my ever-patient beta, and to the girl on the bus who was reading over my shoulder and gave me a much-needed compliment. I hope you enjoy this first half!

* * *

Across the country a blonde presses her chest into a man as he walks by the alley, inviting pleasure with a quick roll of her hips.

_Whatcha looking for, mister? Leave them, come stay with me. I'll help you. Why so earnest, huh?_

A gun shot rings out between the walls of the alley and she drops like a weight, expression of surprise frozen on her face, now missing a lot of its structure seeing as the bullet punched a hole the size of a potato through it.

_Oh, don't worry, I'm not looking._ Sam flicks the blood off his jacket with a pleasant expression on his face as he makes his way down the street, polite as ever.

_Just waiting for someone._

* * *

Gordon Walker breathed out slowly as the last glimmer of sun disappeared beyond the horizon, nerves steadying as the last of his doubt went with it.

Detroit was strangely cool for an August night, wind whistling between the desolate buildings, stirring the trash as it sent debris flying.

Tonight was his final hunt, and the most important one of all. Tonight he would reclaim the honor he'd lost by any means possible, and everything would fall into place.

Tonight he would kill Sam Winchester.

* * *

It didn't matter that the badge he flashed was fake this time-to him, the seal of the marshals looked as brave as always, glinting dully in the strange orange light that shuttered the blocks. He gripped the leather case tight in his hand as he made his way across the street, feeling adrenaline pulse through him at the mere though of action.

He triple checked his supplies and facts on the long walk up the street, running a hand into his pocket to make sure everything was still there. Gun in pocket, knife in boot. Badge in hand. The facts were a little bit harder to remember, but Gordon had committed them to memory almost religiously every night, lying in bed with eyes closed as his lips shaped soundless words.

Sam Winchester, unknown age, presumed mid-twenties. Brown hair, hazel eyes, 195 pounds. Tall, estimates reaching anywhere from 6'1" to 6'6", and highly dangerous. Terrorizing people through his size, even if he preferred guns and knives to fist fights.

From what Gordon had collected (Which was a lot) Samuel Winchester had killed more than two hundred people in the last six months, and the numbers kept climbing every day. It was hard to estimate the damage he and his brother had caused, measured in blood, grime and ash, but it had amounted to something nearly inhuman. Something evil.

Sam Winchester was a name to be feared, a member of one of the most terrifying pairs in history, and only Gordon had the strength to do what others couldn't.

The public and FBI wouldn't raise a hand to the brothers, sick lovers who murdered for the applause of the other more than for the sake of killing. In a different world, Gordon could almost understand the need to kill, the need to dominate, to stay calm and cool and in control. He could almost identify with some killers, those who murdered with one, pure, untarnished goal in mind.

The Winchesters didn't murder for the sake of killing, and that made them just that much more dangerous.

He saw the first one about sixteen minutes in, curled up tantalizingly against the brick wall of a convenience store in a dark red top and skirt. He looked up and down the street before crossing, but the shadows revealed nothing between the stripes of orange that shone down from the lights above.

"Good evening, Ma'am," Gordon started, falling into his professional persona like he'd never left the force. He felt a degree of pride under the calm focus he'd shaped himself into as she stood straighter, eyes going wide as she stared at him.

"What's this about?" Her voice was sharp, street-sharp, but he could see her shifting in her heels as he held out his badge, flipping it open one-handed.

"US Marshalls, Ma'am. Just asking a few questions about some recent...occurrences."

She shifted a little more anxiously at his choice of wording, so he reiterated quickly, dropping his voice to the honey-sweet octave he knew charmed even the coldest of women. "That is, if you had time tonight, of course. I wouldn't want to...intrude."

She bit her lip, but Gordon could see the ferocity of emotion clearly outlined in her eyes. And why wouldn't she be angry? Her sisters were being dropped like flies by the worst evil to ever walk the earth. She _should_ be angry, desperate, even!

His thoughts were confirmed as she spoke up, voice a few notches softer, though still carrying a degree of anger.

"You're talking 'bout the murders, right? All them killins last week. Well, lemme tell you Mr. Marshall, you done jack shit for us so far." She narrowed her eyes. "I lost seven friends last week, and that ain't even close to how many died. You know what it's like to turn the corner and find someone's head splattered up the wall? Sheeit, it ain't a fuckin' cakewalk."

He put a hand out, forming his face into a placating expression as she fumed. "And we understand that, Ma'am. We're trying to gather details, put a profile together. See if we can catch this bastard once and for all."

Empty words, but it got a curious look from the hooker.

"And how are y'all gonna do that?"

Gordon took out his notebook from his pocket, flipping it open. "All we need is what you've heard, a description, rumor. Anything you've heard would be immensely helpful."

She gave him a dubious look, hand on hip. "I ain't know nothing 'cept someone's killing working girls. What else you want me to say?"

Gordon sighed internally, feeling his patience begin to run out. "A description would be enormously helpful, even if it was something you saw on the news or somewhere."

"I know he's tall." She murmured, enlongated nails tapping against her cheek with a soft click. "And he don' make noise when he walks. That's all I got, okay? I don't wanna talk about this no more."

"That's fine, ma'am. Thank you for your description." Or lack of it. "We're actually conducting a move on him tonight, and your evidence corroborates what many other witnesses have stated. I would suggest you stay off the streets tonight, until we catch the guy."

She gave him another look, twisting away from the wall with a sinuous twist of her hips. "Whatever." Her boots clacked as she walked away, though, seeking safer ground as Gordon allowed him one small smile.

* * *

He gave the speech to the three other girls he found up that street, all of which put up more of a fight than the first girl. It proved how scared people were, but the stubbornness did nothing for Gordon.

The only way to hunt a predator was to be smarter. There was no possible way Gordon could track one man through all of Detroit in one night, but he could narrow it down. He'd spent years hearing about the man, and the last week tracking every murder like a hawk. He knew Sam Winchester like he knew how to breathe-how he did things, where, when and why.

Sam was a predator in every sense of the word, and it was almost predictable how he circled his prey, diving for the largest and most inviting in every environment. He'd taken six districts in six days, a half dozen whores each night with tonight being the finale. He'd picked out the most expensive hookers in each neighborhood, shooting and slashing his way through couture and Pilates-toned skin with the remorse of a vengeful god.

Tonight was the final night, and the last district that remained had the largest fish of them all.

Sheila Lacey, the most sought-after "escort" in the whole city. It nauseated him, but he had to think from Sam's point of view, as dark as it was. He would go for the biggest prize the last night, circling before lunging in for the finale kill of the week.

He managed to clear a majority of the girls in the early hours of darkness, having them either go home or to another area. The whole street was almost empty as he made his way even farther north, circling just like he knew Sam would around Sheila's corner just before midnight.

She looked expensive enough, if not classy, with blonde curls down to mid waist and large, blue eyes. Her toned body shined even in the low light, inviting while simultaneously pushing back. S_low down_, it said. _You can't afford this._

He settled in to watch with little resignation, feeling the anxiety climb as Sheila spent nearly two more hours out on the corner. The shop behind her, where he knew she had some clients, was open and bright behind her, even though she seemed anything but busy.

Murder didn't do well for the escort business, it appeared.

Gordon held his breath around three as a tall figure approached her, smile glinting in the darkness but otherwise unnoticeable. He watched intently as Sheila's whole body language changed, shifting from bored and exhausted to flirtatious and inviting in seconds. He heard a soft giggle as she tossed her curls over one shoulder, holding out a hand to the man with a wide smile.

Gordon released the breath he'd been holding as the pair walked off, feeling the success of the moment as Sam Winchester's profile caught the light between the street lamps. He tapped his pocket one last time before following, steps silent as he walked a block and a half behind them. They ducked into an alley a block later, Sheila giggling with the grace of a pig. Didn't she know alley's weren't classy?

A little surprisingly, she was already dead when he turned the corner into the alley, throat slashed as blood pumped of of the cut. It was deep enough to reveal a glint of bone in the alley light, but it was anything but amateur. He stepped over the blood quickly, feeling his heart speed up as his eyes searched the alley, trying to locate the man who'd been there just seconds ago.

Damn it. Damn it! There was nothing. No Sam. The alley ended not ten feet ahead in stone, so where the hell had he gone?!

Gordon flinched as someone kicked a stone at the front if the alley, instinctively grabbing his gun as he spotted movement. His eyes widened as Sam unfolded himself from the wall much like the prostitutes had done, watching Gordon under hooded eyes.

"Alleys are dangerous places this time of night."

Gordon snorted, hating the tremor that rocked through his hands as he held the gun high. "Wouldn't you know."

"Ah?" Sam took few steps forward, stance deceptively innocent as he slowly covered the distance between them. He was like a tiger, bouncing gracefully on the balls of his feet while appearing anything but harmful. Gordon almost envied his appearance, his fluid changes from predatory to prey a useful if not slightly disturbing talent. "Do I know you?"

"US Marshall." Gordon took a hand off the gun to grab the badge from his pocket, flipping it open for the other man to see. "Gordon Walker."

Sam looked at the badge for a long second, leaning in close enough that Gordon could see the specks of gold in his eyes, reflecting and refracting the light from the mouth of the alley. A smile spread across his face as he stepped back, humor clouding his eyes.

"Walker. Walker. I think I do know you after all. You're the ex-marshall who was on the news, right?"

Gordon felt a wave of anger climb inside of it, barely restraining himself as the words _ex-marshal_ pulled at scars deep inside him. "Marhsall after all, actually."

"Really? How'd you get out of prison?" Sam looked almost delighted, fingers flicking as he appeared to count something, ignoring the gun like it didn't even exist. "What was that, five years ago? You killed your sister, right? With the knife?" He mimed a slashing motion and laughed, not noticing Gordon's hand shake from another violent tremor. "A bloody death. Not really my forte."

Gordon had enough control to look dubiously at the wall behind them, still splattered in Sheila's blood to the point of covering up a majority of the paint. Sam gave the pool of blood a dismissive glance, turning curious eyes to Gordon once again.

"So, Gordon Walker." He sounded strangely formal, raising an eyebrow at the gun still pointed at his head. "What can I do for you?"

Gordon swallowed, evening out his breath and trying to get his hands to stop shaking. It all came to this, five words and a little bit of justice, five words and he'd-

"I'm here to kill you."

* * *

A/N Gah! Want more? Liked it? Leave me a review, tell me what you thought! The other half only comes sooner if you do...:)


	9. Chapter 9

A/N The other half I promised has arrived! A super thanks to everyone who reviewed, because, seriously, you guys rock. Thanks to my beta, who needs more praise then I give her. Here's the final part, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

A slow smile unfolded on Sam's face, dumbfounding Gordon. The other man actually started laughing, chuckles bouncing off the alley walls as he turned appraising eyes on Gordon, who still held his gun.

"That so?" He bit his lip, apparently trying to restrain himself before unraveling into more laughter. "I'm sorry, but that's great."

"Great?" Gordon felt another wave of righteous anger roll inside of him as he struggled to keep from pulling the trigger. Winchester kept laughing, though, running a hand through chestnut hair and looking skywards. Gordon found his eyes following the gesture, transfixed as the man's mercurial mood seemed to shift again.

"It's been a while since I've heard those words." He finally said, voice a touch lower and more resonant. He moved hazel eyes down to focus on Gordon's face, still blatantly ignoring the gun pointed in his face.

"Go ahead, then. Do it."

His lips moved so precisely, each syllable cutting through the haze of anger and adrenaline surrounding his mind. He could almost see the dare suspended in the space between them, a slide of a finger and the click of a trigger away-

"You're serious?" He nearly smacked himself as the question left his lips almost unbidden, receiving a grim smirk from Sam.

"Tick-tock goes the clock, Gordy. Or your gun, more likely. Still haven't turned off the safety yet?"

Gordon's eyes widened minutely, but he kept the gun still. "Wouldn't you like to know. Gonna tell me how many bullets are in it too, Sherlock?"

Sam snorted, tossing the hair out of his eyes before leaning forward, teeth glinting in the orange light. He seemed perfectly at ease, content, even.

"I like you. Enough that I'll give you a chance, hmm? A bet. Not something I do for everyone, either. It's a big honor." Gordon glanced over at Sheila Lacey's body, arching an eyebrow before bringing his eyes back to Sam.

"And what are we betting on?"

Sam's smile widened, and even Gordon could admit to the fear it sparked inside of him. The innocent child facade had dropped, revealing the feral predator beneath, all sharp teeth and hunger as he ran his eyes up and down Gordon's body.

"You got handcuffs?"

Gordon raised both eyebrows, intent not to be unnerved. "Little bit kinky for a bet, don't you think?"

Sam's mouth twitched. "I'm a little beyond kinky, if you've noticed. But do you have them?"

Gordon reluctantly reached into his back pocket, pulling out the brand new set one-handed, key still dangling from one of the cuffs. He tossed them to Sam, keeping his gun aimed at the man's heart the whole time. He put another hand back on the gun, settling back onto his heels.

"Now explain."

"It's simple. We lock our hands together, throw away the key, and jump. Three easy steps."

"Jump where?"

Sam gestured vaguely, fingers fluttering in the dim light. "The river. First one to escape wins the kill. You following me?"

Gordon frowned, feeling doubt curl in his gut at the sight of Sam's too-innocent eyes. "Won't we just knock each other out and drown?" It was a fair question, considering the baffling nature of the bet.

"No, see, that's the beauty of it. First person who makes it out of the river gets the gun."

Gordon gave him a dubious look. "My gun."

Sam smiled brightly, nearly feverish in his glee. "Exactly! I knew you would get it! We both go in weapon-less, but only one of us can come back out. You win, you get what you came for. I win, well..." He paused, giving Gordon a dark look, hazel eyes shifting. "Let's not ruin the spirit of the bet, hmm?"

It was his only chance, and the idea of a leveled playing field,_ Mano a Mano,_ taunted him. Sam Winchester was dangerous, sure, but weapon-less and handcuffed he was as close to declawed as possible. It had to be now, ridiculous as it was.

"One question." Sam tilted his head as he spoke. "How do we get out of the handcuffs?"

"If you're as good a hunter as I think you are, you'll figure a way out, Gordon." The look he gave him held almost a glimmer of admiration, sickeningly enough. He steeled himself, finally nodding as a long breath escaped him.

Even rationality had its limits.

* * *

The water was low for the summer, though still high enough to get a leg over the side and rappel up. Gordon found himself memorizing every feature the abandoned dock had as they walked forward, mind spinning three ways at once as he struggled to keep the gun under his coat pointed at Winchester.

Sam chattered politely as they walked the three hundred yards to the docks, waving hands energetically as he lectured Gordon on the current political climate, of all things. His knowledge was actually fairly extensive, and Gordon found himself slipping into agreement with the man more than once before shaking himself. It was a shame, really; the man was close to a genius when it came down to it, regardless of his age.

And Sam Winchester was too young.

"And here we are." Sam breathed deeply next to him, nodding towards the wood dock over the water. "That'll do for the gun."

Gordon didn't say anything in reply, setting the gun down on the ground before turning slowly, feeling his heartbeat race as he saw Sam reach into his pocket. He managed to put a hand across his mouth when the man wasn't looking, passing the pick into his mouth and sliding it between his tongue and back teeth. He flinched almost imperceptibly as something glimmered in the other man's hand, making him itch for his gun.

"Relax." A set of knives was revealed, one still sticky with the traces of Sheila's blood. He spun once, lifting his arms to show he was weapon less. He held the handcuffs between two long fingers, gesturing towards Gordon with an easy-going smile.

He reluctantly pulled the knife from his boot, tossing it to the ground where Sam had set his weapons along with his badge. He lifted his hands slowly, doing a matching rotation until Sam nodded, two predators sizing each other up before the fight.

The handcuffs went on with a click, and before Gordon knew it they were falling, landing in the cold water below with a sharp crack.

He automatically reached his free hand up to his mouth, grasping the small silver pick between his thumb and forefinger as they sunk. He felt movement and shuddered as Sam's arm grazed his stomach, lean flesh causing even more goosebumps to raise on his skin.

They surfaced after about ten seconds, gasping for breath and tugging on their connected hands every few seconds. Gordon moved his hand and whipped it across Sam's face, landing a vicious blow. He only needed thirty seconds and he was praying it would keep Sam disoriented long enough for him to get the pick in.

Sam went oddly still next to him, leaving Gordon even more weight to deal with as he kicked desperately, feeling a flash of victory as the pick clicked into the lock. He jimmyed it for a few seconds, feeling the lock begin to give way under his hands. The terror wasn't gone, though. A quiet, unmoving Sam was far more fear-inducing than a loud one.

He had just realized this mistake as the second to last click sounded, feeling a hand grip his wrist almost as hard as the cuff on his other arm. Sam bent them over in the water, sending them down again before Gordon could realize what had happened.

Water rushed into his lungs, but before he could acknowledge the icy pain, the hand gripping his wrist tightened and a fiery pain ripped up his arm. He screamed, swallowing even more water as Sam bit down on his thumb, ripping the joint as he shook his head from side to side.

He felt them rising and screamed again as the joint popped free, unbelievable agony spreading through him as his thumb disconnected. His hand was ripped from the handcuff, now considerably less wide as Sam pushed the cuff off of his now-disfigured hand.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was the glimmer of the street lights above, reflecting through chestnut hair as everything went dark.

* * *

He woke feeling like his hand was on fire, but no matter how much he tried to move, his arms wouldn't budge. He surfaced more and groaned, feeling the rough scraped of ropes against his wrists and ankles, leaning his head back as his vision cleared.

Sam was standing right in front of him, bland walls shadowing his face from view. Gordon looked a little further, seeing crates and boxes nestled in the corner. A warehouse, then.

"You're awake." Sam didn't say it like a question, but Gordon felt the need to express his...well, _suffering. _Loudly.

Sam gave him a dubious look, eyeing the stump where Gordon's thumb used to be with little care. Gordon felt nausea rise in him as he spotted a fleck of blood on Sam's lips, wiped away a second later as the man licked his lips. He moved with fluid grace across the warehouse, picking something off of the table and bringing it over.

Gordon barely stifled a groan-gasp combination as Sam sat down on his lap, straddling his hips as he produced two knives, glittering like gems in the low light. Pain flared through him as his wound was jostled, mixing with something else as Sam settled, eyes holding none of earlier's playfulness.

"Gordon." Sam nearly purred, breath warm on Gordon's still-wet skin, holding the knives between them on display. "Do you know what these knives are?"

"For cutting." Gordon grunted out, feeling his chest tighten as something dark flickered behind Sam's eyes. The other man shifted, catching the thin moonlight from the window above on the blade, cutting with light through the dark room.

"Yes, they're also used for cutting, but these two are a little more special than you'd think. You see, they're part of a matched set. A little bit like me."

Gordon swallowed as one of the knives pressed against his throat, sharp enough to draw a bead of blood with just a touch. He saw Sam's pupils dilate as the red ran down his neck, hazel disappearing behind black before he seemed to compose himself.

"You want me. I could see it." Sam twisted in his lap, sick lust in his eyes. "From the moment you set eyes on me. You didn't really want to kill me."

He mouthed along Gordon's neck, breath ghosting over the cut as he made his way up to Gordon's ear. "Were you going to fuck me before you killed me? Hold me down and fuck me bloody right there?

"You were, weren't you?" Gordon shuddered as the man smiled against the skin below his ear, lips sliding gruesomely. He moved sweet eyes back to Gordon's, something sharp twisting inside of them as the other knife suddenly dug into his thigh, plunging between Sam's legs and into Gordon's until only the hilt was visible.

Gordon let out a scream, throwing his head back as Sam dug the blade in even deeper. He tried to bite down on his lip, stifling the groan that tried to escape as Sam pressed warningly on the other knife against his neck, keeping him still.

"But you have to see, Gordon." It was said softly, almost sincerely, Sam keeping deep eyes on his before leaning in to whisper in his ear.

_"I'm not yours."_

He twisted the knife viciously, earning another scream from Gordon as more blood poured down his leg, pooling under the chair beneath him. His vision flickered for a second, focusing on the sound of Sam's laughter as he tried to think of a way to escape.

Sam almost looked righteous as he managed to focus on him again, eyes bright with emotion as he still held the ever-present knife to his bloody throat. His mood had shifted again, body tense with anger as he stared down at Gordon from where he sat on his bloody lap.

"Gordon. Gooordooon. Stay with me here. Not a lot left, I promise." Gordon tried to narrow his eyes at him, but the effort was too much. He could feel the blood pumping from his leg and knew Sam had hit something vital.

"Wh...what?" He grit out, hating the tremor in his unsteady voice. Sam smiled, leaning forward deliberately onto the knife buried in his leg.

"You know, the only one who gets to fuck me is a far better man than you, Gordon. And that's the biggest insult you could toss at me, you know?" He twisted the knife against his neck a little deeper, drawing more blood. Gordon watched in near amazement as it splattered across Sam's face, painting him bloody. "Pretending you were worthy to even speak _my name." _

Gordon screamed as the knife in his thigh was pulled out, making a strange sucking sound as the flesh tried to hold onto the blade. Even more blood started pumping out, and the world started to get hazy.

"You don't get that, Gordon. I belong to him, and he's the only one who _understands._

"So I hope you've learned." Another scream as Sam sliced down his face, ripping his cheek apart with a feather-soft cut. Sam licked along the cut, tongue lapping up the blood before leaning back, bloody smile the last thing Gordon saw before everything finally,amazingly, went dark.

* * *

A/N What did you think? Want more? Have a request? Leave a review! They make my day!


	10. Chapter 10

A/N Thank you so much for the response to the last chapter, and to all of the readers as well! Your reviews are what drive me to get more chapters out quicker, so Thank you. Thanks also as always to my beta Angelicaldevil, who rocks the world. Here's the next installment, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The grave's like any other, with a plain headstone, complimentary flowers and single plot. No expense was wasted on the embellishments, and it shows, shows in the weather-scarred stone and the weeds that dig into the earth around it. There's a sense of general sadness, the one that goes hand in hand with death, but for all of its existence, it could be an empty grave.

Eight years now he's watched it, and the only thing remarkable about it on the outside was its spartan layout, barely a penny more than what the city would shell out on a good day. Not bad, not good. Simply being.

The significance however, seems to be astronomical. How much the man, _John Winchester_, must have meant to the only two people who've ever visited his grave remains a secret, one he's kept for strained years, clear among the fuzzy memories of life long forgotten.

He doesn't watch the television, but the grounds keeping house has a radio. The name Winchester took on a new meaning months after the man was buried, heralding the beginning of an end so terrible, he cringed at the first mention of it, threw the radio out days later.

But before he knew who John Winchester was, before the sons of that terrible man played with the daily lives of too many, he watched the grave for the people, he had thought at the time, who couldn't. Cleaned the dirt off, pulled the weeds every few weeks. Wondered who the man could've been, his life, the highs and lows of it. He grew curious, interested like the mysteries he read every Sunday he had off made him. He wouldn't research the man, he'd decided then. Half the challenge was watching, and watch he did.

First came the blonde one, exactly three weeks after the casket descended and the grass rolled back. The man wore a long black coat, edges tugged up around a handsome face with sharp green eyes, a dark shadow against the autumn sunset.

He watched as the man, barely old enough to be so broken looking, knelt in front of the grave, something silver clutched in his left hand. The hand opened after several long minutes, revealed dog tags dangling on a simple chain and a wedding ring that glinted in the dying light.

Military, then.

When the second man came he didn't kneel, eyes dark with something nearly identical to what resided in the other man's gaze as he stalked towards the grave. His jaw remained clenched, hazel eyes severe as he stood almost resolutely behind the other man, seeming torn between anger and the alternative.

The first man stood after a few seconds, dog tags still hanging from his fingertips. He said something in a low voice to the other man, expression lightening ever so slightly as the hard to make out words settled between them.

He could almost watch as the second man's anger dissolved, not disappearing completely but reigning itself in as the hands unclenched, lips parting. He said something back to the green-eyed man, bowing his head slightly as the other man turned to face the autumn sunset, tension still coloring the air with fire.

They stood there for what felt like hours, stances mirroring each other in their military firmness and acceptance. Neither spoke again, bodies not touching as they kept a grim watch over John Winchester's first real night at rest.

He spotted a bag next to the second man after another hour, disappointed in his observational skills as the two men (brothers?) ticked off another hour into the long night. Their coats danced in the wind, taking on a life of their own as night fell, but they didn't seem to notice. He watches in disbelief as three hours stretches into four, five, six. It's midnight when one of them moves, handing the blonde man the bag next to his feet with an uneasy familiarity, almost ritual in its procedure.

He feels his breath catch as two shotguns get pulled out, launching out of his seat and scrambling for his own firearm in a dazed panic. They load simultaneously, eyes fixed on each other for the first time all night.

He's out the door and on the porch with his own shotgun in a hurry, sighting clumsily as he tries to get the safety off. His knees were meant for walking, not running, and he stumbles on the first step, slams his knee into the railing with a soft curse.

Two guns are on him in an instant, and he can actually feel his heart stop and freeze in his chest as he meets their eyes. He's like a hare caught between two wolves, and the sensation of being prey floors him, locks his knees and paralyzes his voice.

There's a panicked, silent communication for a second, both men catching each others gaze for a drawn out moment. He feels every second like it was a year, and he can tell whose hands his fate resides in now like a sixth sense. He's interrupted something, and a second could decide whether he lives or dies.

Whatever ritual it is they're doing is beyond him, beyond the simple understanding of a lonely man. There's pain in their eyes, but it's overruled by a determination so sharp it chills him to the bone. He spots the tags on the ground between them, forgotten as they defend their territory.

He holds his breath as they eye him, trying to restrain the flood of regrets that pour through him as he faces death itself after so many years of watching. Their eyes hold none of the humanity he's used to, and the near-madness in them makes him want to fall to his knees in apology.

The taller one gestures with the gun all of a sudden, pointing back at the still-lit house without a word. The motion forces him into action, and he scurries with more grace than he's ever mustered in his whole life up those stairs, heart pounding as he locks, bolts and slides every part of his door shut, curling into his bed with boots still on and the gun clenched in his hands.

It's next morning when he hears the name Winchester for the first time, and it's the last time he goes near John Winchester's grave again.

A/N Liked it? Want more? Don't forget to leave a review, and tell me what you thought!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N Hey guys! Long weekend and a Monday equal tears and exhaustion, but this plot bunny wiggled its nose at me and, Ta Da! Thank you so much for the reviews, and thanks as always to my amazing beta, who needs to recover from their cold soon! I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!:)

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The sun was hot in his face as Dean sped down the highway, but the bullets whizzing by the open window nearly scratch the paint, and _goddamn_. His baby's meant for driving, not fucking target practice for some wet behind the ears podunk police officers, and it's beginning to seriously piss him off.

He sees red as one of the cars maneuvers dangerously close behind him, revving a little and unleashing another round of shots. One of them pings off the hood, and that's it.

Dean switches the wheel to his right hand, leaning out the window with his Colt gripped tight and a determined grimace. He can see the officer in the nearest Ford hesitate, eyes widening at the barrel. Damn right.

He looses three shots and grins as one of the cars skids, swerving as one of the tires takes a hit. There's still three behind that, but the satisfaction that sings in his blood makes up for it. Suddenly, he wants more. Wants to see them burn like the town he just left behind in the rearview mirror.

The guy in front takes aim again, leaning out of the car while his partner mans the wheel. Dean smirks as he drives one-handed, loosing three more shots that hit the car behind him effortlessly.

The remaining two cars speed down the rural highway behind him sirens still blazing, red and blue lights reduced to pinpricks as the sunset settles above the horizon. Dean leans back inside of the Impala, flushed with sun and exhilaration.

He whoops and presses the accelerator down, topping off at a hundred and twenty. The cops probably never drove this fast in their lives, and Dean can see it from the paleness in their faces in his mirror. He leans out again, holding the wheel with an iron grip as he sights on the lead car for the last time.

He gets off three shots and ducks back into the car before the sting in his shoulder gets to him. The last two cars skid out of formation, rubber burning as they tumble to the side of the road, rolling and rolling out of sight.

He grins over the pain, pressing a hand to the wound with a detached curiosity. It's worse than usual, staining his whole shirt red in seconds instead of minutes. He shakes his head and grimaces, slowing down after a few miles and tearing open the shirt.

Damn. Not a through and through, and there's enough blood to say he'd nicked bone. Not something he can fix on his own, then.

He stuffs an old t-shirt into the hole and ties it fast with a roll of gauze from his kit, feeling the adrenaline leave his system after nearly an hour of chase, though he can barely remember why he was running in the first place.

He drives for a few more miles, noticing the signs around him with a delayed shock. His hands are numb as he flips open the phone, bloodied fingers leaving marks on the keyboard as he dials.

It's almost night now, but he knows he'll pick up.

"Hello?" The voice is gruff, layered like three days and a bottle of whiskey and twice as many packs of cigarettes. Dean smiles almost reluctantly, sunset a soft reflection in his eyes as he directs the car towards Sioux Falls.

"Bobby?"

* * *

Bobby's a mess as he hauls him inside, slamming the door and shoving a chair in front of it. They're in the middle of nowhere, but he throws every lock like Hell's waiting outside. Dean stands in the study while he waits, wavering as the blood loss slowly gets to him.

"Damn it, boy. I told you not to come here anymore." Bobby grumbled as he hurries to the kitchen without a second glance at Dean, throwing water in the stove to boil rags. Dean walks to the pantry on numb legs and grabs the kit he knows from past experience is hidden there. He winces as the weight pulls at his shoulder, dragging it over to the table in an effort to be helpful. He is bleeding all over Bobby's house.

"You, sit." Bobby's flying back into the room with his finger pointed directly at Dean's face. He still isn't making eye contact, though, shoving Dean onto the couch roughly. He bites down on a groan as the older man rips open his makeshift bandage, fingers digging into his skin as he inspects the damage.

"Damn, boy." He grumbles again, a frown settling even deeper on his face. "I don't even wanna know how you got this one. That's a ton of shrapnel."

"So fix it." Dean grunts, glaring up at him. He can't help the groan now as Bobby checks behind the wound, running cold hands where the exit wound should've been.

"Not a t-"

Dean interrupts. "Through and through. Yeah, I know."

Bobby grunts again, walking back to the kitchen with a worried look on his face. The stove goes off with a click, and so it begins.

He wakes up after the third tequila swig wears off, cursing under his breath as he feels Bobby's tweezers moving _inside _his arm. Glasses replaced the hat what seems like hours ago, and there's bright light everywhere as the older man leans over his arm with a look of extreme concentration on his face.

"W'supp?" He slurrs, trying to move his legs without shifting his upper body. A firm grip stops him, and when he looks up he meets beady eyes.

"This is your last favor. I'm done patchin' you together every time you so something stupid. Done, you hear?"

Dean pretends not to see the fear on Bobby's face as he says this, closes his eyes instead and leans back into the pain.

"Where's Sam?" He says a few moments later, eyes clenching closed as Bobby digs at a deeper piece with the gentleness of a pro-wrestler.

"California, I think." There's a note of disapproval to his words that Dean pretends not to hear.

"Having fun, I guess." He tries to smile in Bobby's direction and gets another reprimand about moving faster than he can blink. Sam's always loved the west, the mountains and the sun. Nothing like Sioux Falls, where the temperature is dropping below forty every night, regardless of summer.

There's an eerie sense of disapproval radiating from Bobby, out of place and unfamiliar as it shocks him from his daydreams. Or nightmares. He doesn't know what time it is for the first time in a while, hasn't trusted himself to anyone but Sam in months.

He blinks the thought away and winces as Bobby pulls out yet another piece, metal white hot as it's pulled from his flesh. Damn rookie cops.

"S'it alright if I crash here for a few days? Gotta fix up the bullet holes on the car."

"Bullet holes on the-" Bobby stops himself, disbelief spiraling into unintelligible muttering.

"Bobby."

"No." Bobby's eyes dart away before Dean can catch them, but Dean can feel the anxiety in the air like he can feel Sam sometimes, like a taste on the back of his tongue. Bobby feels like fear, yellow as it fills the room.

Bobby sighs, running his free hand back into graying hair as he leans back, chair protesting. Dean sits up a little, feeling the atmosphere change as Bobby's jaw sets. It's almost like he's hiding something, but Bobby wouldn't-

"Did something happen? Someone come around here or somethin'?" He can't say it hasn't happened before, but Bobby wouldn't give them up. He wouldn't. He says it to himself again just to be sure.

The other man won't meet his eyes, and this time Dean can tell why.

"Someone did, huh?" He leans back into the bloodstained couch as the silence continues, stung by the betrayal. To him. To Sam. _The,_

"It's not like that." Bobby muttered softly, ten years older as he faces Dean for the first time all night. "Just some dumbass cop askin' the wrong questions. I didn't give y'all up, if that's what you think."

"So let me stay here." Dean hates pleading, hates it like he hates digging bullets out of his baby. "Bobby, you know I'll be gone soon."

"I'm sorry, boy, but-"

Dean'd control snaps faster than he realizes, and he's standing on numb legs as anger flows through him. "You _owe_ us, Bobby. You owe me so much more than one night here."

He can see the pain flash across the other man's face and it's like watching a movie, transporting them years back when Bobby needed their help. When Sam laughed as the woman's body burned and Dean watched the man who'd killed her help pile the branches higher.

It went down on the books as a tragic home invasion, but there was more behind the eyes of Bobby Singer than people thought. _Tragic, his poor wife had died._ Stabbed to death, they said. _No, they never caught who did it. Such a shame._

Bobby's face is mournful as he snatches the bottle from Dean's lax grip, taking a long swig before handing it back. Dean blinks at that, anger disappearing as Bobby waves at him, eyes downcast once again.

"Stay the night if you like, but I need you gone by morning. Don't want no one seein your car."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't thank me." He says as he stands, gathering the supplies.

" I owe you and your brother my life." Bobby turned away, rags piled high in bloody hands. Every step was a little slower, a little more weighted down as he shuffled to the kitchen.

"Not sure it's worth so much anymore."

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A/N Like Bobby? Want another chapter or something different? Leave a review below, and let me know what you thought!:)


	12. Chapter 12: Sam and Dean Dance

A/N Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to LeeMarieJack, TormentedGirl and WolfoftheDawn, who sort of inspired this chapter, which is a bit of a doozy. Thanks also to BumbleBeeBitch and my beta, who make me laugh every day.

Like the Gordon chapter, I broke this one in half, and also like before, I'm playing dirty. Want the second half sooner? Review, and let me know what you thought! I'll try and get the other half up sooner! :)

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It's early morning as he rumbles through the town, radio playing Zeppelin low under the chatter of early morning activities. People are out sweeping, lassoing children into school buses with a happy sort of exhaustion plain on their faces. They watch him as he goes by, eyes catching on the sleek curves of the Impala that glint in the new sun.

He double checks again to make sure the car he's tailing's still ahead, and it is. Ahead a few blocks, he can just barely make out his brother's profile as he turns a corner, cat eyes reflecting the sun like mirrors.

What Sam's doing in Milwaukee baffles him, but it isn't his job to predict. He can only follow, and chasing Sam was always something he was good at.

It's maddening, how close they are, but Sam hasn't seen him yet and that's the whole point. He's perfected the art of hiding in plain sight, and while his car's easily identifiable, he's never driven close enough to alarm Sam.

He raises an eyebrow as Sam turns them a block and a half ahead onto a busier street, leading them into the business section of the city with an ease that says he's planned this. And Dean knows he has, from the three ditched cars he's found and the endless highways he's chased Sam across. His brother is up to something.

Sam parks in a pay-by-the-hour car hell, ducking out of the car with a briefcase and a coat thrown over one broad shoulder. He's wearing something close to business attire, sharp white dress shirt emphasizing every muscle his brother owns. Dean parks silently a block away, taking a second to appreciate the view Sam's putting on in the dark, tight dress pants and shiny shoes. A moment later his brother is moving, coat tugged on over wide shoulders as he walks leisurely down the street.

Dean gets out of the car when he's far enough away, tapping his jacket pocket to reassure himself before following. There's no way to tell what Sam's planning, no way to prepare for it, and maybe that's what's so glorious about his brother.

He can see people move out of Sam's way on the sidewalk, deferring to the elegant and polished mask Sam was wearing. He feels a swell of something skin to pride as the people give Sam a wide berth, eyes moving appreciatively as he smiles at them.

Dean's eyebrows raise as Sam takes them further down the block, reaching the downtown and taking a sharp right. Everything falls into place as he pushes the bank's doors open, and a smile splits his face as Sam's eyes catch in the reflective windows of the second door of the entrance.

Dean holds back before entering, sliding the doors open and ducking in while Sam's back is turned. His brother's at the front in ten seconds, long legs taking him to the clerk's desk faster and more gracefully than should be possible.

He takes a few steps to the right, hiding in the corner and picking up a few meaningless forms. He fills them out without looking down, eyes glued to Sam as he chatters amiably with the clerk.

He sees what's going to to happen long before it does, can see the scene overlaid on top of his vision like microfiche. There's about thirty people inside the long marble hall, including secretaries and execs, and not a single one of them knows what'll happen in the next ten minutes.

Sam jokes with the female clerk for a few minutes, feeding her some bullshit line about transferring funds as they smile at each other. There's an ample amount of flirting from both sides, but Dean can see what Sam's really doing like he's doing it himself. The girl tosses her hair a few times, leaning forward over the marble countertop and pushing her chest forward naïvely. Sam laughs again, bell tones ringing across the hall as teeth flash. The woman, Amanda, her name tags says, leans forward even further as his brother reels her in, eyes filled with happiness and desire. She wants Sam, like she rightly should, but she can't have him. Not today.

Ten seconds later there's a gun to Amanda's throat, and Dean feels a burst of pleasure as he decides how he's going to play this round. The mood changes like a bucketful of ice water's been dumped on him, and suddenly it's ON.

Sam grabs the girl by the hair and hauls her across the countertop, gun pressed to her neck as he turns her around, placing her body in front of his. His eyes are almost gold in the soft light, sharp and dangerous as they span the room.

"I want everybody on the ground now, hands where I can see them! Now, now!"

There's a few screams as panic overtakes the room, eyes widening as people begin to realize what's happening. There's a mad moment of chaos as people seem to decide whether to flee or stay, some bolting for the doors while others stay down.

Sam spins around just as Dean ducks behind the forms table, shooting the two men behind the counter before they can call the police. Screams ring out as the men slump in their seats, head blown apart in chunks on the walk behind them.

"Hands where I can see them!" Sam shouts again, pointing the smoking gun back to Amanda's temple. She's sobbing silently in his grip, makeup running down her face as she cries.

The rest of the room complies in short order, getting down to their knees and placing palms out in front of them. Sam motions them to the center of the bank with a wave of the gun, eyes flicking back and forth as he counts every person. Dean moves with the three people near his section, turning his face away as Sam gathers them in the middle.

Dean stays behind the old lady in front of him, watching as Sam efficiently drops Amanda in the group, grabbing the gun with both hands.

"Now, this can go two of either ways." Sam says, and his voice is that honey-sweet reassurance from before, low and rumbling like he doesn't have a gun in his hands.

"I want the vault open in the next five minutes, or I start picking targets. You comply, no one gets hurt. Is that clear?" He tries again, voice ringing out as the hostages stay silent. "Is that clear?!"

Dean nods along with them, keeping his face out of eight as he runs over his plan. Sam seems to look appeased, and it's possible he's going to get his way very soon.

"Now, who has the combination for the vault?"

A pale man in the front of the group raises his hand shakily, face going even paled as Sam zeroes in on him. "Umm, I have a part. Sir." He gulps the last bit, Adam's apple bobbing.

"You're working on a new quad-system, so we need four combinations." Sam assumes, doesn't ask. "So, which of you have the rest of the combinations?"

The room is silent, and Dean can see the twitch of Sam's mouth as a flicker of anger passes through his eyes. Everyone avoids eye contact, and suddenly there's a gun in the face of a woman three people down from Dean.

"I told you this could go two ways," Sam hauls the woman to her feet, pressing the gun against her temple as he yells. "I want the combos before I blow her head off! Do you understand?"

Dean takes that moment to stand up, hands held forward as he begins to play his part.

"Sir, please let the woman go. You don't want to do this."

Sam spins at his voice, and Dean smiles at the flash of shock he sees across his brothers face, moment stretching as they make eye contact. Dean gives a shrug with his left shoulder, unnoticeable to anyone but Sam.

"Hmm? And why should I do that?" Sam's mask is back in place, but there's a feral edge to his smile that makes Dean shiver. "I don't want anyone playing hero, Mr..."

"Smith." Dean growls, enjoying the anger he sees in Sam's face as he takes a step forward, playing the role of the ever-sacrificing hero against Sam's villain. "And I said put. The woman. Down."

Sam's face is impassive even as the gunshot rings out, woman dropping like a marionette as the bullet enters her skull.

"Happy, Mr. Smith?" Sam asks, nudging the woman with his foot as the rest of hostages whimper behind Dean. "I think she's down now."

"You sick bastard." Someone mutters behind Dean. Sam laughs at that, flicking the gun lazily in the direction of the person who spoke.

"Say it again and I'll blow your head off too, mkay?" He walks forward and the person cowers, whimpering as the gun is shoved forward.

Dean kneels as Sam stands above him, letting his hands tremble as his brother's shadow looms over his own. He can feel Sam like a pulse in his blood, buzzing and vibrating not six inches from his fingertips.

"We can get through this peacefully. Please." He begs him, though he'd like nothing more than to reach out, touch the person he's only seen from afar. There's a splash of blood across his temple, red on gold, and it's mesmerizing this close, spread across golden skin.

Sam grabs him by the coat, hauling him forwards like he did to the girls. Dean flinches as hands brush skin, groaning in pleasure-pain as he tries to be as convincing as possible. He gasps as he's pressed against the wall of one of the offices, tilting his head in mock-fear as Sam leans in, whispers to him before his brother can speak.

"What are you really doing here, Sammy?" He whispers it like a taunt, but it comes out more like a groan as Sam nudges his legs apart, blocked from the other hostages by the door. Sam's lips are pressed to his, muffling the name, but he pulls free with a gasp.

"It's not about the money, so what, huh _Sammy_?" Dean gasps again as those long fingers slide up his shirt, teasing. There's fire racing through his veins now, pulled to the surface by feather-soft touches, a millionth of the power Sam could exert ghosting across his skin.

Sam shoves him away from the partition and hauls him out the door, giving him the barest of smiles before growling out. "Back with the other hostages. Now."

Dean hides a smile as he goes, finger bloody from where he'd swiped it across Sam's temple. His brother doesn't even notice, barking orders with the gun before Dean even realizes he's gone.

Time to dance.

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A/N Want more? A sooner update? Leave me a review!


	13. Chapter 13: Blood Brothers

A/N So, first off: I lied. This was going to be two parts, and now it's turned into three. Thank you super super much to everyone who reviewed, and to my beta who is too awesome for me to handle sometimes.

Dying for the next installment after this? Leave me a review! I'll post sooner, I swear!:)

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"Now," Sam says as if nothing's happened, voice sliding back into a smoother register. Dean can see the slight swelling of his lips from where he's standing, but he shakes himself before he's caught staring. The other hostages are gathered around him as if he's some sort of leader, and maybe now he is-the one person between them and his brother as Sam paces down the hall, shoes clicking against the smooth marble.

"There are three of you who have the remaining combinations to the vault." He starts, holding three slim fingers out so everyone can see. Dean restrains another small smile as Sam continues to assert his power, tipping his head forwards in the picture of deference.

"I want all three of you to stand up by the time I count to ten. If no one stands up, we're going to have a problem. Do you understand?" The gun's still in his right hand, but he doesn't use it, imploring the group with his eyes.

"One."

Silence.

"Two."

Someone shifts behind Dean, and Sam smiles as a middle-aged man in a suit three times too small shuffles to his feet slowly. Sam's smile grows as he says the next number.

"Three."

A whimper.

"Four." Sam lets the word slide off his tongue, eyes panning over the motionless group. He's enjoying it almost more than Dean is, playing at a part.

"Do I hear a...five? No?...Six."

A woman in her early forties stands up, makeup smeared and clothes mussed. Her lower lip trembled as Sam lets out a peal of delighted laughter, offering her a hand to stand up she doesn't take.

"One more left. You guys are doing great." And it's hard not to _want_ to obey that voice. Sam could be any normal guy, dimples flashing as intelligent eyes move. "Seven."

Silence, and by now the tension's increased tenfold. Sam raises mock-surprised eyebrows, lifting the gun from his side to display.

"Eight."

He sights the woman from before with an indifferent look on his face, shrugging. "Nine."

"Fine." Sam turns on his heel as the man stands, pushing himself to his feet as he challenges Sam. "I'll give you the combination."

Sam lowers the gun, reaching behind him to the forms table and grabbing a notepad. "Write it down."

The man pulls a gold pen from his pocket, scribbling a string of numbers down before handing it back to Sam. His brother gives it to the first man who'd stood with a nod.

The other three people write their combos down in quick order, all sitting down with the rest of the hostages when they're finished except the last man. He's still standing in the middle of the floor, eyes glassy as he stares at Sam.

"Sir-"

Sam spins before Dean can warn the man, arm raising as he fires directly in between the man's eyes. Blood splatters the hostages nearby as one of the women screams before quieting, face frozen in shock.

"For making me wait." Sam says softly when everything is quiet. He takes the pad and gestures towards Dean. "Smith."

Dean stands, feeling the eyes on him as he walks towards Sam. The paper's pressed into his hands, smeared with the tiniest of blood on the corner.

"You're going to open the vault while I wait here, understand?" He says it loudly, so every person in the room hears. "One wrong move, and I start taking shots. No police, no phones. I want to be able to see your hands at all times. Understood?"

Dean grits his teeth, rebellious against the dominance Sam's exerting. He schools his face into a neutral expression, though, and takes an uncertain-looking step towards the vault right behind the counter.

It's quiet as he kneels in front of the humongous lock, mind whirring as he tries to figure out how it works. Sam would've had its structure memorized, probably does, but Dean's always worked with his hands, and he knows machines.

It takes him just over ten minutes to get everything right, wary of the cost of Sam's anger if he screwed up. Their eyes meet for just a second as he turns around, but it's like staring into a mirror. Sam's nearly high with the power he's taken, and the force of it is pulling Dean right along with him.

Sam speaks for the first time in minutes as Dean returns to his spot, gun raising. "Everyone in the vault."

There's a murmur of protest from the group, and Dean goes along with them. "You said you were going!"

Sam turns dark eyes on the group, ignoring Dean. "Get up and in the vault. Single file, hands to the side."

They stand up, shuffling just like Sam instructed. The vault's barely large enough for the twenty-some people that are left. Dean notices with some curiosity that Sam left one of the security guards alive, though weaponless.

There's one last view of Sam's face before the door shuts with a click, and everything goes dark.

"They must have just cut the power." Amanda, the receptionist from before says. Her hands are trembling slightly, but her voice is steady. "I saw it on a police show once. It means the FBI is here."

"Doesn't mean we're gonna get saved." An older man in the back grumbles, face pale under splatters of blood that isn't his.

"We're going to get you out of here." Dean says reassuringly, turning to address the entire group. "We just need to stay calm, and follow every order. No one else is gonna die today, you hear?"

There's a few nods, but the words don't mean much inside the vault. Dean sighs, leaning against the wall as he rubs his eyes. It's too early for this.

The vault opens twenty minutes later, but everyone inches back as Sam appears in the doorway again. He eyes Dean almost immediately. He's taken off his jacket, the innocent hero in white.

"Smith." He gestured towards Dean again. "Since you've decided to be the spokesperson for today, you can come help."

Dean nods stiffly, brushing past Sam as he holds the vault door open in a gesture of mock-chivalry. He smiles at the hostages, dimples flashing as he gazes into the pale faces.

"Can I get you guys anything? Something to drink?"

Silence.

"Ah well." Sam begins to shut the door, muscles flickering through the dress shirt. "You guys sit tight, then."

They push the door closed together, arms brushing as it slides shut. Dean breathes heavily out of his nose once, turning to face Sam as his mask solidifies even further.

"What do you need me for?"

Sam smirks, running a hand back through messy chestnut hair. "Liaison, really. The FBI's been calling, but I don't really feel like talking, you know?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "They'd stop calling if you let the people go." He reasons, taking a step forward. "They're easily pleased."

Sam lets out a sharp bark of laughter at that, but his answer's cut off by the shrill ring of the phone three feet away. His brother raises an eyebrow at him, gesturing with one hand towards the receiver.

Dean glares at him but grabs the handle, sighing to himself as his brother smiles. "Yes?"

"My name is Ron Jacobs, and I'm-"

"You're the FBI agent in charge of this case. I know." Dean cuts him off. "Please. You need to help us."

Sam's still smiling when they lock eyes, Dean's mouth moving as Sam's plan unravels between them.

"Who's this?" Jacobs sounds confused. "Are you a hostage, or-"

"My name is Dean Smith." He cuts him off again, putting a pang of worry into the words he doesn't feel. "I'm one of the hostages. Served three years in Iraq, special forces. He chose me to negotiate."

The agent catches on fast enough this time, which means they don't have a definite ID on Sam yet. "What are his demands so far? Do you recognize him?"

Dean puts a hand over the receiver. "Requests?"

Sam closes his eyes, rattling off a list that's complete bullshit and more. Deans has to smother a laugh as he repeats the demand to remove all the nuclear weapons in the US to the FBI agent on the other end. The profile they're gonna get is going to fuck with everyone's minds for sure.

"Is that all for now?" The FBI agent sounds cool, to his credit. Dean doesn't reply, hanging the phone up with a raised eyebrow at Sam.

"Back in the vault." His brother says, playfulness narrowing into something sharper. Dean stares at him, unamused.

"Now, _Smith_." Sam orders again, already halfway across the room towards the vault. He gestures to Dean, holding out the combinations like he's enjoying every minute of it. There's a gun pressed to the back of his spine, smooth metal cold against sweaty skin.

Dean groans to himself and settles his anger, opening the vault as quickly as he can. He grits his teeth again as Sam slides the gun into his waistband with none to little amusement. It's a little secret, why Sam's laughing behind him, but soon enough his footsteps fade as Dean finally unlocks the damn thing.

Amanda's eyes widen as Dean pulls the door open, leaping up from her spot on the ground. "You saved us!"

The rest of the people shift to their feet, faces turning in hope. Dean avoids their gazes, stepping into the vault and closing the door behind him. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back

"I'm sorry." He tells Amanda as he settles in for more waiting.

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A/N Want more? Want to tell me what you thought? Leave a me a review below!:)


	14. Chapter 14: Requiem

A/N So, here's the final part of the bank chapter. I'm sorry it took so long, but life reared its ugly head and...yeah. This chapter is devoted to everyone who reviewed, and to my awesome beta. You guys kept me sane this week, and that awesome.

To Mr. Comatose: Yes, this was meant to be a retelling of "Nighshifter", but not all of the details are the same, as you can see from this chapter. I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review!

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"There's no need to yell at the boy." The security guard from the back of the vault grumbles. "He been savin' your asses all day. It probably wasn't safe."

Amanda's cheeks redden slightly as the man puts her in her place, ducking back into her spot on the wall without a word. Dean feels the security guard's eyes on him and turns.

"What'd he have you do?"

Dean shrugged. "Talk to the cops."

"Anything happen outside yet?"

Dean nods. "FBI's here. I saw the SWAT teams through the window, too."

The man nods at this, taking a few steps forward until he's parting the crowd, taking charge alongside Dean.

"Where'd you serve?"

Dean smiles, almost shakes his head as he remembers his cover. "Iraq."

"I'm gonna ask you one question, and you can refuse no matter what, okay?" The security guard, BILL like his name tag says. "Can you get us out of here?"

Dean doesn't reply, sliding a hand to the small of his back where the gun rests. Curling fingers around it, he pulls the weapon out slowly, displaying the cool metal for Bill to see.

It's what Sam gave it to him for; just another prop in the madness of their current reality. The gun's for both of them, three steps up from make-believe and rising fast.  
The security guard's eyes widen a fraction as he sees the gun, but a second later they're filled with a calculated shrewdness.

"You got a plan, then?"

* * *

The sliding of the wheel alerts them to Sam's presence hours later. Dean takes his position at the front of the safe as Bill gathers the civilians at the sides. It's what they've been waiting hours for, and Dean counts the seconds it takes for the last bolt to slide, shifting on the balls of his feet as he waits.

The door swings open right on time, revealing his little brother in the doorway. Dean doesn't think as he swings the gun out, pistol whipping Sam as lightly as possible while still making it look real. He crumbles to the ground as the hostages sprint around them, spurred on by Bill as he covers Dean.

Sam's up and angry in seconds, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow down his face. He looks murderous, the king usurped from his throne and it kills Dean, it really does, to see him so angry. He tosses Sam a wink as he aims on him, then own little secret as the hostages "escape". Sam gets the hint, mock-swaying on his feet from the "hit" as the group bangs frantically on the locked doors, caught between the foyer and the man who'd taken them.

Sam bolted the doors shut, but Dean didn't mention that when they started planning. He didn't mention a lot of things, come to think of it.

Bill waves the last hostage out of the vault before he comes up behind Dean, grabbing his discarded gun from before from where it sat on the floor. He takes his place next to Dean and sights on his little brother with both hands.

"Both hands on your head!" He shouts, voice ringing between the screams from the hostages. "Kneel!"

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, lips pursing before he shakes his head. "Nope."

Billy's eyes bulge while Dean smiles to himself at Sam's refusal. "Son, I'm pointing a goddamn gun at your HEAD! Kneel before I fucking shoot you, you son of a bitch!"  
"Dean?" Sam asks, smile spreading across his face as the big reveal draws even closer. Dean turns, takes a step back and sights on Bill before the other man even turns his head.

He savors the expression of surprise and betrayal on Bill's face as he blows his head off for only a second. Sam picks the man's gun off the floor and they both turn toward the hostages, firing rapidly.

Dean hits Amanda with a bullet to the shoulder, watches her spin as she falls to the marble like a limp doll. There's screaming, too much of it, really, as they fire on the last two dozen, head shots all around. There's blood everywhere when Sam fires his last bullet, flicked across the walls and windows like paint was on sale that weekend.  
Dean drops his own gun as the last fat-banker goes down, pacing through the blood and bone until he finds Amanda. She's breathing heavily, gasping as he comes even closer.

"No-no no no no, please-" She cries out as she tries to move, shoulder covered in blood. Dean considers her for a second, calls over to Sam across the marble.

"Babe, you got rope?" He wipes the sweat off his hands and drops the gun to the ground. The weapon's empty now, a forgotten prop on the floor behind him as Sam's show finally draws to a close.

Sam's smile glints in the low light of the emergency lights, wolffish as he watches Dean stand over Amanda. He tosses a bundle of rope to Dean, handing his discarded tie over as well.

"I like the way you think, Sammy." Dean murmurs, kneeling in front of Amanda and shifting her to tie her legs. Her shoulder's a bloody mess, his shot going straight through with plenty of blood. He ties her arms in front, binding the rope with the tightest knot he knows. Amanda's speechless as he grabs the tie, letting out a nearly inaudible cry as she tries to escape.

He pushes the tie between her teeth just as Sam comes up behind him, whispering something in his ear as he ties it around her head. He leans up into the touch, hissing as Sam nips at his neck. Amanda's eyes widen even further as they kiss, long, slow and victorious over their kills.

"Long day." Sam murmurs into his hair, smelling of gun powder and blood and SAM. "Worth it, though."

Dean lets out a sharp bark of laughter at that, rolling his head back to face Sam. "Show's not quite over yet, though."

"Ah?" Sam's distracted, hands slipping under Dean's shirt, sliding over warm skin, spanning his back in seconds. Amanda's gone even wider-eyed next to them if that were possible, making distressed-sounding groans as she tries to move her arms.

"I think it's my turn." Dean says, grabbing Sam's face in his hands, pulling him from his exploring. "You need to be taught a lesson."

"I don't know if I'm up for teacher roleplay." Sam laughs, but his eyes are dark, dark with a million things but filled with want.

"See, there's that attitude again." Dean turns them in one swift move, sliding Sam onto the floor beneath him. "I've been listening to it all day, Sammy, and I'm not taking anymore." He pushes his hips forward, eliciting a long groan from Sam as they touch. The floor's hard beneath his fingers slick with blood, but all he can feel is Sam Sam SAM.

Sam pulls him down before Dean can think about it, kissing him heatedly as they grind together. He lets Sam take control of the kiss for only a few seconds, pushing down on Sam and biting more than actually kissing. Someone draws blood, and Dean's mouth is filled with a metallic taste as they kiss even deeper, surrounded by the smell and feel of it on his hands, his tongue.

"Off." He growls at Sam, pushing up on his brother's shirt to emphasize the point. Sam complies instantly, hurrying to shrug out of the dress clothing as Dean undoes his belt. His eyes catch another pair watching as he turns, almost forgetting their audience.

"You mind someone watching?" He says laughingly to Sam, laying a possessive hand over Sam's bare chest as Amanda watches on through tear-filled eyes. "I think she'd like it."

"Anything for you, Dean." Sam says, cheeks already flushed with exertion. He goes to work at Dean's jeans, ignoring Amanda as Dean lets Sam undress him.

"Watch me own you." Dean punctuates this with a kiss, moving lower down golden skin, nibbles at his collarbone.. "Watch you cry out just for me."

"God, Dean." Sam groans out, eyes closing as Dean moves even lower. "You sound like a million-dollar whore."

Dean smirks at that, but Sam doesn't seem to be complaining as he slides the lube out of his front pocket and places it next to them. Sam's eyes catch on it instantly, widening a fraction as Dean leans down.

"Go ahead." He orders, sliding the bottle into Sam's hand. "I want you to open yourself right here. Understand?"

It's a sick parody of Sam's early orders, but his brother's keening below him as he takes the bottle, legs spreading as Dean kneels between them. Sam opens himself slowly, groans sliding out as his finger brushes something inside of him that sets both of their blood on fire.

"God." Sam gasps as he works a second finger in, beautiful in his abandon as their eyes catch. Hazel's disappeared behind black, pupils dilated so fully it's like Dean's looking into a mirror.

"Try again." Dean says, smiling down at him as Sam pushes a third finger in, back arching slightly as he takes himself even deeper, rocking back into his fingers as Dean kneels between his legs.

"Now." Sam gasps out after a minute of this, both of them achingly hard and breathing heavily. "Now, Dean."

Dean catches Amanda's horrified eyes one more time before leaning down, pulling Sam's wrists up until he's got his brother pinned beneath him.

"What do you want?" He teases, fingers rubbing slow, tantalizing circles on the inside of Sam's wrist. It drives his brother crazy, shifting and jerking beneath him with panting, breathless groans.

"You. I want you, Dean." Sam begs, head twisting side to side as Dean taunts him, earlier dominance reduced to ashes before his eyes.

He pauses for one last breath, enjoying his Sam's breaking apart for him before his eyes. Even Amanda's silent as Sam begs, eyes glazing over as his brother twist beneath him.

"You didn't say the magic word."

Sam groans, one long sound of frustration. "Please... Dean. Please-ngh. Now."  
Sam shifts beneath him, pushing his hips up to rut against Dean, sliding and giving in return. He lines himself up and pushes in with one long motion, groaning as Sam surrounds him tightly, warm and wet.

Sam moans as Dean starts a furious pace, hips snapping forwards until he can feel Sam moving with him, pushing back into every thrust beneath him.

"You're mine, baby brother." He says into Sam's ear as they slide against each other, caught up in a world purely for themselves. These moments are when they're the closest, souls slotting together as their bodies move in tandem.

"Dean." Sam moans, head tossing as he thrusts harder, leaning forward. The angle's changed, and ever thrust draws a near-scream from Sam, pushing them both closer to the edge as Dean fucks him harder and harder.

"You're mine, understand?" Dean asks, gritting the words out as he feels his muscles tighten in warning. "I wanna hear you say it, Sammy. So everyone knows.

"Say it."

Sam's an inch from the edge, hands curling in his hair, gripping tightly as his eyes fly open, locking with Dean's. "I'm yours." He gasps out, breathless, and that's exactly what he needs to hear, thrusting into Sam until there's barely any pace at all. He feels Sam tighten around him, crying out his name as Dean quickly follows, groaning his release into Sam's neck before falling to rest on his chest.

After a few moments Dean finally moves, sliding out of Sam before grabbing his jeans and sliding them on. Sam's nearly out for the count, eyes blinking lazily as he watches Dean from his spot on the floor. Amanda's still crying, silent tears streaming down her face as Dean walks up to her, considering. He grabs the silver letter opener from the desk behind her and weighs it in his hand for a second.

With a single slashing motion he brings it down, slitting her throat until he can see bone. Her eyes go wide and a series of gurgles force their way out, blood streaming where her neck used to be.

Dean waits until she's dead to go back to Sam, dipping a hand in the puddle of blood gathering on the marble floor. Sam sits up as he sees him coming, eyes flashing.  
"Five stars." Dean says, holding his bloody palm up for his brother to see. "Not bad, little brother."

Sam's about to answer as the phone rings again, shrill against the silence of the long hall. And what a day it's been, after all, that neither bother to answer it.

* * *

Ron Jacobs heads the SWAT team that enters the bank, taking point as they spread out across the first entrance. He signals to the commander on his left and suddenly they're off, silently stepping into the bank with guns readied.

The first entrance is empty, men sliding past the doors to enter the main hall. There's blood almost everywhere, painting the walls and marble floors in red and bits of bone. Ron feels his stomach turn as he sees the corpses, hate for the man who'd done this growing with each step.

Something rustles off to the left and every man's gun instantly shifts, pointing towards the sound with unerring accuracy. A flash of something dark is all they get before one of the men flips the flashlight on.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" A man yells, bloodied face nearly completely obscured as he raises one arm up. In his other another man lays, unconscious and covered in blood to match.

"Please." The man says softly as the SWAT team approaches, pointing with a shaky finger. "He went out the door there. You-you need to get him. I think he's still in the office."

The five-man team instantly moves into action, spreading out to cover all angles as they approach the manager's door on the left of the room. The leader signals once, twice, and they move forward, guns ready as they open the door.

In the panic and chaos, the sound of an engine starting was forgotten, buried under sirens and radios and the eventual call of "clear" from the SWAT team inside the bank.

And if nobody remembered the two bloody men from inside the bank, or recognized the faces underneath the blood, then that was okay too.

* * *

A/N Liked it? Want more?(I'm taking requests!) Tell me what you thought in a review!


	15. Chapter 15: Sooner Than You Think

A/N Shout out to everyone who reviewed, and to Angelicaldevil for putting up with me with little eye-rolling. Remember, one month ago, when this story was less than 2k? This is all due to you guys, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. It's been a pleasure.

* * *

All those years ago, before the Second Fire and before everything, there was a girl. Blonde, tan like the sun had just barely kissed her skin, tall like the goddesses of ages before.

Smart, too. Straight A's through high school all the way to Stanford. She'd caught the eye of every man there with the kind of easy personality girls everywhere sought and never achieved. There was an honest, sweet truth to Jessica Moore, and that was her downfall.

A lost brother, pushed out from the remains of a family (that was never quite whole) stumbled into her path one cool, September morning. Spilled their books and blushed, picked them up like a gentleman she'd never seen before.

It was almost too easy to fall in love with the dimples, the soft, puppy-dog eyes and earnest nature. He was amazing, with kindness and intellect to match hers, and before either of them realized it, life had shifted.

Fast forward however many months love takes-or how long it takes to grow, at least-and the front door opens, creaking ever so slightly in the midnight gloom around their apartment. He's up before she can stop him, silent grace in between their narrow hallways as he stalks after the intruder.

She meets sin incarnate that night, from the curve of devilish lips to the hell caught within green eyes. It's almost painful to see them like this, mirroring the other even as they stand across the room. She tastes the tension in the air before she even steps into the room, feels it in a way like she's never felt anything before, deep to the bones.

And then they're gone. Without an explanation, either, and that's what hurts the most. She sees through the lie he feeds her instantly, accepts it before she even knows why. He's looking past her as he says it, focusing on the man in the other room like she's a distraction. Like the months and years meant absolutely nothing. But she knows it has to be-knows it by the small box she found hidden under the bed, by the promises in his eyes every night. He'll come back.

She's baking when the front door opens, singing along with the top forty over the sound of the mixer and the oven. It's late, but she doesn't care. He's home.

She smiles as footsteps echo behind her, keeping her back turned as she mixes, teasing. There's warmth coiling in her belly, mixing with relief as the sound of footsteps gets closer.

An arm clamps down on her waist, hard and snug, digging into soft muscle. She opens her mouth to protest, surprised as the grip intensifies and a hand cuts off her words.

_I'm sorry._ He says, and it's not the voice she's expecting. She looks down, sees the silver ring glinting on the hand of the wrong brother. He whispers into her ear, pressing her against the counter to keep her still, pleading even as rough hands force her to the ground. She cries out against his palm, feeling the fight go out of her as he slams down on her shoulder, striking the nerves nestled there until her arm goes limp.

_I'm sorry, he's mine. He's mine._ He repeats like a broken record, breath soft against her cheek. _You don't understand._ And maybe she doesn't, for once, because the need in his voice is making her stomach turn. This is the brother that left for years, this is the brother who couldn't call during Christmas and he needs what's _hers_?

She knows if she looks up she'll see regret-because the worst of it all is that he almost sounds regretful, like he's _sorry,_ of all things, to take him away from her, like she's been an inconvenience all along, the warm up to the real show.

He slits her open with the steak knife her parents got them for Christmas, lays her out on the bed like she's only sleeping. She can feel the cut beneath the nightdress, pumping blood onto the sheets at a frenzied pace. It'll probably be a bitch to get out later, she thinks, but thinking makes her dizzy so she stops that.

He's a shadow above her, dumping sweet-smelling nothing around the tiny apartment with silent steps. Says_ sorry_ again and lights the match, drops it and slams the door. She can hear his car start up from within the apartment, hears the soft rumble of the engine and imagines it's his voice instead, the soft rumble of someone just a little too far away to be heard, low and sweet as it reaches her ears.

She wonders what they'll say at her funeral, or if Sam will even go. If she'll even have one-the flames burn brighter than they should the last time she looks up, and maybe they'll just take her along with them, ashes to ashes, unrecognizable between the soot and the dust that will remain of their apartment after she's gone.

She wonders if he'll take him away from Palo Alto, drag him back to the family he hates. Wonders if he'll go willingly, for once, forgive the father for years of torment and blood.

She wonders why she thought, with the late-night discussions and the refusals to even pick up the phone (and just _call) _and the pain in his eyes, that their family couldn't have been as bad as it looked.

She wonders if maybe, after all, she had been wrong.

* * *

A/N Shortie, I know, but someone once told me short and sweet (or in this case bittersweet) was the key to ffnet. I like reviews like I like candy, and I reaaaaallly love candy, so review? :)


	16. Chapter 16: Guilty Partner

A/N The terrible crash of ffnet scared the pants off of me for a few hours, but I decided if even late, this chapter still deserved to go up.

For TormentedGirl, and my beta. Leave me a review to let me know someone's still reading?:)

* * *

The accelerant washes off only half-way, burns the inside of his right hand where he'd held the jug, but Sam doesn't notice and Dean isn't keen on pointing it out. He puts a bandage on anyways, though his brother's perception skills are worse than ever as he sits in the same position on the bed for hours, eyes red-rimmmed and glassy.

The clock buzzes slightly as it hits noon, vibrating against the cheap bedside table by Sam's hand. Dean gets up, finds the suits he'd rented for both of them in the closet where he'd left them three hours ago, dull and lifeless on their hangers. He runs his hands over the collar of Sam's, pulling it off the hanger gently as he walks towards his brother.

The sound of Dean's footsteps don't reach Sam, and his brother's lifeless stare stays in place, fixed on the hand in front of him, folded as it clutches something precious.

Dean lays the suit on the bed without a word, slipping into the bathroom for a wet cloth. Sam's face is still ash-streaked, rubbed raw from tears and smoke and pain he can't emphasize with. He wipes over cheekbones carefully, sliding the cloth across the delicate arches of Sam's face as Sam ignores him.

They have an hour until the funeral, but Sam doesn't even look ready to blink, much less get up and talk. Dean feels a modicum of regret as he sees pain flicker deep in Sam's eyes, but it's smothered beneath a fiery possessiveness even he can't hide. Sam's hurting, sure, but it's the same temporary pain he's felt before-bullets, broken bones.

It's eleven forty five when Sam moves, slipping the hidden item into his pocket and stumbling to his feet. It's like something's cracked, sending Sam towards the bag on the table in a blur of motion.

"Sam." Dean calls out in warning, stepping to his feet as his brother pulls out the bottle of whiskey he'd grabbed in the flurry of last night. Sam gets a long drag on the bottle before Dean can pull it away from him, cursing.

"Give me that-" Sam's voice cracks from disuse, spotting the silence he'd kept since last night. He takes a dive for the bottle, reaching across Dean's chest for the whiskey. He holds it back, placing it on the table and shoving Sam backwards as gently as he can.

"What are you thinking, getting shit-faced ten minutes before the funeral?" He asks incredulously, and what he really means is _What are you doing getting shit-faced over _her? He didn't think Sam would be this hurt, this _broken _after her death. He'd spent years with Sam. She'd had months.

Sam's nostrils flare as Dean's words get to him, pushes back in the first display of anger all day. "Give me that." He says coldly, the ferocity of his glare diminished by the tears Dean can see welling up in his eyes.

"No."

"Dean."

He takes a step forward, eyeing the clock. They have less than ten minutes to get ready, now. "I said no."

"Goddamnit, Dean!" Sam throws a sloppy punch his way, tears spilling down his face as he screams. Dean pulls down on his brother's shoulder, spinning him until he's got Sam in a lock against his chest.

Sobs spill from Sam as his brother cries in his arms for the first time in years, sagging against his shoulder as he makes the most painful sounds Dean's heard in his life. The rawness and agony of it makes his stomach roll, makes his possessiveness sharpen even further.

"I want-I want-" Sam grasps his face clumsily, fingers grabbing his hands, holding them against his cheeks as they stare at each other. "Dean, I want..."

"What do you want, Sammy?" He whispers, wishing he could press forward, give Sam the kind of reassurance he needs. Give him a comfort he hasn't gotten in years.

"I want him, Dean." Sam grits out, eyes burning. "I want the bastard who did this, and I want to rip him apart."

"Sam..." Dean starts, because they've done impossible before, sure, but this time-

"No. You don't understand. I _loved _Jess." He looks up at Dean, the epitome of heartbroken as he clutches him closer. He tries not to enjoy the closeness, the feeling of Sam in his arms more right than anything in his life.

"I want him to pay for this, okay? Whether you're there backing me up or not." Sam continues, grief breaking into a vicious fury that Dean's almost relieved to see. "I'd go now if I didn't have to-"

His face crumples as they both glance at the clock, tension receding a little as Sam's hands drop, face expressionless once again. Dean shakes free of the guilt and anger in that second, pushes Sam's shoulder towards the bathroom. He places the suit in his hands without an answer, waiting until the door closes to let out the stressed breath he'd been holding.

"Anything you want, Sammy." He whispers, though for first time in his life, it's a lie.

Sam finds Jessica's mother quickly after the funeral, leaving Dean to trail after him as he's pulled into multitudes of hugs, pale friends, family members and strangers offering comfort and even extending it to Dean. He excuses them from most of the talking, guides Sam to where he knows his brother needs to be.

Jessica's mother catches his eye as Sam kneels in front of the grave, crowds respectful as they give him a wide radius. There's something in his hands again, twisting over and over again, hidden behind slim fingers as Sam's lips move soundlessly.

He sees the exact second Mrs. Moore gets it, sees the small ring glinting in the sunlight as Sam speaks to the one who can't respond. Her careful expression of peace and reservedness shatters, tears poring down her face as Sam gets up to one knee, holding the ring out in front of him in a mockery of proposal, bittersweet in the face of death.

The ring falls into the grave as if in slow-motion, spinning and catching sunlight as Sam releases it. Mrs. Moore makes a sound like pure pain beside him, hand covering her mouth as Sam stands and faces Dean, a stranger's pain and anger written out across his face. He stands tall over the grave of someone who took his brother away from him, filled him with lies and weak promises and diluted love. He wants to burn her even further, stamp away the ashes until nothing remains of the person who'd taken his place, forced their way into a spot reserved before she'd taken her first steps as a kid. Sam is his, and that makes right. Sam is his, and that's why they'll get through this.

Sam will forget Jessica. Dean won't.

A/N Next chapter will be a doozy! Leave me a review?:) pretty please?


	17. Chapter 17: A Red Letter Day

A/N For Eclipse Wing, whose reviews always make me smile. I know this chapter might not be what you were asking for, but I solemnly hope you enjoy it.

To my beta, and to everyone who reviewed. Thank you for sticking with something that has grown to mean a lot to me. (Even with thumb-biting, and, you know, all-out gore) :)

* * *

Dean rips into the man's ribs just as he lets loose his last scream, trembling around the grip on his still-beating heart. He hears the door open behind him but doesn't turn, wrapping calloused fingers even tighter around the screaming man's life source as he raises his blood covered knife.

With one vicious snap of his wrist the heart's in two pieces and the man's final scream tapers off to nothing, slumps back down to the table with a final exhale of breath. Dean loosens the leather straps and kicks the body, sends it to the blood-covered tile with a grim sort of satisfaction.

"He wants you outside."

Ruby's heels click behind him as she shifts on the bloodied floor, echoing loudly in the extreme silence that always lingered after death.

He nods once, doesn't meet her eyes as he turns and stalks towards the door. She's brunette today, ditching the blonde look from the week prior like last week's trash. He doesn't think too hard on her, though, because there's things with importance in life, and she's not really one of them today.

He doesn't wash his hands on the way out, leaving the gore splattered across his face, down his chest. His arms are gloved in it up until his elbows, but it's a stigma he doesn't deny. He supposes it's the only accepted rebellion he can muster anymore, but he's always thrived in blood.

Alastair's waiting for him in the parking lot, pale in the moonlight. The lines in his face seem to dig even deeper, until it's like staring at a clay model, twisted into expressions too horrifying for contemplation.

"Good, good." Alastair murmurs to himself as he spots Dean's arms, uncurls from the wall sinuously and walks over. "Tarrentino didn't talk, I gather?" He lisps, tongue sliding over the syllables grotesquely as he leans forward, appraising Dean.

"Tarrentino talked." He remains expressionless, staid as Alastair raises an eyebrow. "You'll want the warehouse down by seventy-sixth street, midnight."

Alastair seems pleased with the news, crooked grin spreading across his face as he runs the back of his hand down Dean's face. "So special, aren't you?" He hisses, streaking the splattered blood across his cheekbones. "So powerful. Yes, your name fits you well."

Dean remains silent, wills his body motionless as Alastair laughs, speaks in that sibilant voice of his.

"Sam's in California right now." He whispers into Dean's ear, taunting. "I have Meg with him this time."

There was a time when that would've cracked him, set his blood on fire. That was the past.

"I wonder if he even knows you're here." He pauses, waiting and searching for a response he never gets.

"There's another job for you in New York tomorrow." He leans back, staring into Dean's eyes. "And the Righteous Man will answer the call."

_His head rocks back with the hit, slamming against the back of the chair he knows is there but can't see. The blindfold makes predicting where the blows come from, but he rolls with them the best he can, minimizing the pain and getting a feel for the person on the other side of the black cloth._

_He takes three more hits before they take the blindfold off, leaving him bloody and panting in the chair. Bright lights blind him for a moment, shuttered by the silhouette of his tormentor above him._

_"Dean Winchester. As I live and breathe." A male voice rasps above him, lingering on the consonants. He blinks, focuses in on the man speaking in a silent rage._

_The man's tall, slender in a middle-aged way that makes him nearly unremarkable. Bland features center around icy eyes, glittering in the light as he takes a step closer to Dean._

_"Yes, you'll do." He says as if to himself, pacing around the chair as he studies Dean. "Skilled with guns, knives especially, I hope?" He kicks the chair suddenly, making Dean flinch. "Good reflexes too. Oh my."_

_"What do you want?" He grits out around the split lip, murderous. He's all for a little playing before he eats his food-except when he's the food._

_He tugs on the knots behind the chair, surprised as he feels them loosen around his wrists. There's no one else in the room, either, and the whole situation is beginning to take on a feeling of weirdness._

_"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean." The man speaks softly, taking a few more steps until he's right in front of Dean, leaning down until they're at the same eye level. "I've seen some of your work, your...art. Your proficiency in killing is...admirable."_

_Dean narrows his eyes as his gaze catches on something tucked into the man's boot. It's almost as if it's too easy, tying the knots loosely and letting a knife show like that-_

_"So you've heard of me." He raises his eyebrows mockingly, directing attention away from his hands. "Great."_

_The man laughs. "You're practically famous. What, did you expect us not to recognize such pure...talent at first glance? As if you weren't anything less than special?"_

_He works the last knot free and dives for the knife, spinning the man until the knife was digging into the prominent jugular he could see on the man's neck, who let out a hoarse shout as he maneuvered him into the chair._

_"Don't!" The man screamed, hands scrabbling at the arms of the chair. "Don't kill me. Don't kill me!"_

_Dean gritted his teeth. "Yeah?" He asked, leaning forward. "Give me one good reason, buddy."_

_He could almost see the act disappear, fall to the floor like a mask. The man's scared look dropped until all Dean could see was a sort of madness swirling in his eyes._

_"What if I told you I had your brother in the other room?"_

_Dean smirked. "I'd say you were lying."_

_"And I would say you were right."_

_Dean balked. "So I can kill you know, or do I have to play twenty questions before you die?"_

_"Answer this." The man hissed, leaning forward even as the blade dug into soft flesh. "I have my best people on your brother, because I know how much he means to you. They watch his every move, and will kill him if and only when I say so. So tell me, Dean, are you willing to take that chance?"_

_"I don't think you see who's at the disadvantage here." Dean said, nearly amused. "What, is this some sort of cop show where the bad guy always wins? Sam can take care of himself. Trust me."_

_"Detroit."_

_Dean frowned. "Excuse me?"_

_"Connecticut. New York. Chicago. Everywhere Sam's been in the last month. Cincinnati. The beautiful Midwest."_

_Dean narrowed his eyes. "So, you can track."_

_"No," The man smiled, staring straight into Dean. "I can_ hunt.

_ He pulls something from his jacket pocket slowly, eyeing Dean until the whole package's revealed. __They're photos of Sam, as if it should be surprising. Angled shots, from building and rooftops, going back weeks. All of Sam's head, between the crosshairs of a sniper._

_He feels the ridiculousness of it fall away until he's almost shaking, drops the photos and loses the grip on the knife. It's like something's been short-circuited in his brain, until the reality of what could've been falls on him all at once._

_"What do you want?" He asks, taking a slight step back and hating himself for it. Hating the slight tremble of his hands as the man's smile grows even wider._

_"You." He whispers, "Only you, Dean."_

Dean says nothing, doesn't even flinch as the words surround them. It's what he says every time, with every body and secrets unfurled. The praise is meaningless now, cold where it used to irritate. He takes the touching until Alastair grows bored, motionless.

"Good, then." Alastair takes a step back. "Ruby has your information. I want you in the east coast by sunrise."

With that he's gone, tapping his heels against broken asphalt like it's gilded marble. Dean lets the smallest breath escape as he turns the corner, mind leaping into action as soon as he's out of sight.

There's a woman not one hundred feet from him, walking down the sidewalk in one of the worst neighborhoods he can think of in this city. He pounces on her like he's starving, letting out restrained emotions until her throat is slit to the bone, until he's sobbing over her body and panting breathlessly.

He can't. He can't do this anymore. It's too much, but it can't be, because he can't break. Dean Winchester cannot break, but it takes him even longer to come back to himself this time, and that's never a good sign. It's enough for now, though. Enough for Sam, but barely.

Eventually, the sobs quiet and he lets the girl's body go, stumbling back to where Ruby's waiting with red-rimmed eyes. The warehouse is still bloody when he enters, with the bitch standing right in the middle like it's some kind of stage. He swallows his doubt, allows the mask of the righteous man cover his face yet again.

"Info." She says, tossing a folder his way with a twitch of her mouth. He feels boiling rage rise up inside of him before he clamps down on it, grasping the folder and focusing on the file in his hands. He pages through it briefly, smearing the edges with blood until the whole thing's covered in it. He secretly relishes the look of disgust in Ruby's eyes as he hands it back to her.

"You'd better not be getting in the car like that." She mutters as he walks by her, leaves his tools behind in the empty warehouse as he finds the car outside. She rolls her eyes as he makes a point of not caring, leaving blood on the handles as he maneuvers into the back seat. The Righteous Man leaves Dean behind, behind in the blood of the only kill he's made all month, and it won't be enough anymore.

* * *

A/N And I promise there are many parts to follow, and you know how this game works!:)

What did you think? Have any future requests? Leave me a review below! :)


	18. Chapter 18: Soft Touch (Raw Nerve)

A/N A continuation of the previous chapter for Eclipse Wing, whose awesome storytelling powers amazed me and my beta last night. Please go take a look! As always, thank you for reviewing, and for sticking with the story. I promise it's not done yet, for sure. Don't forget to leave a review! :)

For my beta, who keeps me sane, and for TheBadAssFoxGod, who probably doesn't know this exists.

* * *

His hotel room is fiercely modern, all black overlaid by glass and sleek metal. It's larger than most of the apartments he'd lived in, but the space does nothing more than set him in edge. There's an eerie silence to the room, broken only slightly by the soft whirring of the full kitchen and refrigerator.

He sets his briefcase down in the bedroom, closing the door after a quick sweep of the room. There's a suit hanging in the closet, all slim lines and expensive fabric. It'll fit perfectly, too, because Alastair wouldn't settle for anything less.

He's got a few hours until he has to meet Ruby, so he settles on the too-large bed with the remote for the flat screen that was almost larger than the bed. Tv doesn't interest him, never really has, but he turns on the news and tries to relax.

A blonde reporter shows up on the screen, jabbering seriously about something he doesn't really hear. There's still blood on his fingernails, caught between the ridges of his hand. He picks at it absently, eyes flicking up to the screen as the story changes. He considers room service, then relents. The thirty hours without sleep catch up to him slowly, creeping around him as his tired eyes lose focus.

Ruby knocks on the door a few hours later, dressed in a dark red dress that hugs every curve of her body. He feels a spark of bitter amusement as he realizes she wore heels; even with a painful extra four inches, he's still taller.

"Dean." She appraises him, eyes darting across his body. He knows she won't find a flaw in the suit, paired with the dress shoes he'd found and a dark silk tie. He's an entirely new person, molded to fit. He could be anyone; Anything.

He nods at her and grabs his briefcase instead of answering. They walk to the elevator in silence, but Dean can feel her grappling with him. They're both top dogs in Alastair's book, but Ruby's had her eye on the crown for a while now. He feels a tingling in the small of his back as she brushes by him and has to smother the urge to flinch.

The file had been sparse, but not small. The man he was after tonight, Alex D'Angelo, was famous, rich in a way he'd never been able to grasp. His face was everywhere; magazines, newspapers.

Blacklists.

The charity event was an obvious farce, but a good one. He looks over the file one last time in the car, memorizes the face and the build. Ruby leaves him well enough alone, smirking occasionally as her eyes land on him. He doesn't respond to the bait, tracing over the swirl of blood still trapped on his index finger.

By the time they get there, the file's in his briefcase and his mask's in place. Alastair's already there when the driver opens the door, offers a hand to Ruby and a nod to Dean. He follows a step behind as Alastair curls a hand around Ruby's waist, leading her up the stairs and into the event.

He slips around security as Alastair and Ruby pose for photos at the entrance, all bright smiles and magnanimity as people swarm around them and the other attendees.

He joins up with them as they cross security, but his mind's already on D'Angelo. He finds the dark haired man in three seconds flat, talking with a group of donators near the stage as people mill in. He takes a few seconds to place his tools where he'd been instructed before returning. Alastair smiles at him, talking to a pair of men in suits who'd just walked up.

"-My head of security, Mr. Smith-"

"A pleasure." Dean says, reaching a hand forward with a smile he doesn't feel. The men shake hands roughly, looking him up and down with barely-concealed doubt, like he's nothing more than a pretty tool.

"Mr. Smith." The head one murmurs, albeit reluctantly, "We're grateful for your services tonight."

He hides the flinch at those words, not even daring to meet Alastair's eyes as he nods in reply. Because he's not here for free, not at all.

Is there anything you need before we sit down?" The lead man asks. Dean shakes his head and looks pointedly at Alastair, who gestures towards the stage. D'Angelo's about to make his speech; in a few minutes, it'll be game time.

"I believe that's our cue, gentlemen." Alastair says smoothly, pulling a still-smiling Ruby towards their table. He casts one last look at the men as they take their places by the door, sitting down at the lavish table with Alastair to his left. He understands as the older man casts an amused glance at his right hand, brushing the top of Dean's thigh unseen under the table.

His right-hand man.

The speech passes with a lot of false gratitude and what feels like piles and piles of sucking-up. D'Angelo rubs his money in every person's face, and the best of it all is that they take it. With smiles.

He leaves the stage to a roar of applause, waving at the crowd as he makes his way to the back room. Dean gets a nod from the two men and casually rises from his seat, walking silently to the door.

One of the men hands him his briefcase seamlessly, and he slips the black gloves he'd kept in his pocket on as he makes his way down the long hallway.

D'Angelo's taking a sip of bourbon as he slides the door open, spinning around as he enters the room.

"Who the _hell_ are you?"

* * *

"Their throat is an open grave; they use their tongues to deceive. The venom of asps is under their lips." Dean says, sliding the blade even further into D'Angelo's rib cage, skimming just under the soft flesh. The man screams, but he recites the verse calmly, slowly, enunciating each word. "A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will perish."

He keeps his hand steady as D'Angelo writhes beneath him. "You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father's desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, and has nothing to do with the truth, because there is no truth in him." Another quick-slide-touch, another scream.

"When he lies, he speaks out of his own character, for he is a liar and the father of lies. You wouldn't want to lie, Alex. Would you? I know you know what I want to hear. Where did the money go?"

He speaks slow, honey-sweet tones over his knife, comforting even as he hurts. He can feel Alastair like he's right behind him, guiding the knife with a whisper-soft touch around his wrist, pressed flat against him until they're like the same person, two halves of a completely different whole.

D'Angelo screams, but the sound of it is caught in the tie around his mouth. Dean was almost too ready to give up the silk tie, longing for the only thing he'd ever worn around his neck instead of some kind of elegant choking mechanism.

He throws some of the ice water on the man, aiming the salt-laced water straight into his eyes.

"You're ready to tell me. I know you are, Alex. You know why?"

D'Angelo sputters, howling as the salt burns his eyes. The blood on his chest washes away, stinging viciously.

The two men at the door move out of sight for a second, and Dean can see movement in his peripheral vision. The door opens a second later, and Alastair appears.

"My colleague there, he taught me everything I know. Every little...dirty...secret." He trails the knife up the man's bare chest, feels him shiver as his hand brushes the slick-bloody-wet skin. Alastair comes up from behind him, presses right into the phantom space he'd created for himself, guiding Dean's hand.

"You won't like him." Dean says softly, smothering his nausea as Alastair pushes up against him, dress pants a feeble layer between them. It's sick, it's wrong, and it's everything he has now. What he has for himself, he'd given up, gave to Alastair for one thing, one person-

"Will you tell me, Alex?" Dean murmurs, sliding the knife until it's tracing his eyelids, until the knife is all he can see. He feels the ghost of Alistair's lips across the back of his neck, feels him smile, and knows he's won.

* * *

Alastair slips out after that, leaves Dean behind to finish. This is his favorite part, when the kill is nothing but a kill, because no matter what mask he wears, no matter what emotion, it will never escape. It's a secret he has between them both.

D'Angelo pants when he's finished, sweat glistening on his face as Dean writes down the details and numbers. He hands it off to one of the men at the door.

"Alex, have you heard of the Righteous Man?" He asks D'Angelo as he walks back to the chair he'd strapped him to. He sees the second the implication of the name as D'Angelo's eyes widen, and can't help the bitter smile that spreads across his face.

"What do you want, money?" D'Angelo pants, frenzied as Dean takes just one step closer. The knife he picks up is serrated this time, longer than his forearm and wicked sharp.

"What I want, you can't give me." Dean whispers, raises the knife. It's the signature of the Righteous Man, the long cut across the chest and the gutting from waist to throat. A cross, and his to bear.

He places the tie back around his mouth, silencing the cries that follow. It's a gruesome process, long and bloody, and for a second he misses his gun, the easy execution-style deaths it provided.

Just as he finishes, the door moves behind him. He takes the knife out of D'Angelo, other hand scrabbling for the gun that isn't there as he turns. There's a million faces going through his head at a mile a minute, but the last one he'd expected is in front of him.

"Hey Dean." Sam says.

* * *

A/N I know! Cliffie! Leave a review anyways? What did you think? Thank you! :)


	19. Chapter 19: Thieves Like Us

A/N Woo! The final part of the chapter for Eclipse Wing. There are definitely more to come, but I'm glad I managed to get through this one. Angelicaldevil, I believe I owe you five bucks. She said I'd do it in three chapters, while I said four.

Thank you SO SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed. You guys literally make my day, every single day. Please enjoy, and check back here soon for another update! Any requests? :)

* * *

_Just as he finishes, the door moves behind him. He takes the knife out of D'Angelo, other hand scrabbling for the gun that isn't there as he turns. There's a million faces going through his head at a mile a minute, but the last one he'd expected is in front of him._

_"Hey Dean." Sam says._

* * *

He's frozen, slammed into place by the sight of his brother. What's only seconds stretches into hours as he and Sam hold eye contact, until the thin shell around him cracks just the slightest bit.

"No," he whispers. "No, no no no."

Sam reaches a hand out, skin glowing in the soft light of the room. He looks almost ethereal, all smooth skin and luminous eyes as Dean's breath catches in fear. This can't be happening.

Before he knows it he's flinging the half-empty water jug up, splashing Sam with the saltwater as he sprints for the door.

There's a supply entrance into the parking lot written on the blueprints he'd gotten, about twenty feet from his room. He can hear Sam's footsteps behind him as he turns the corner, spots the door and curses the dress shoes as he nearly slides into it.

It's raining when he gets outside, and the air is humid and muggy. Running feels like he's slicing through dense air, pushing maddeningly against the space in front of him until it gives way.

Sam knows better than to shout behind him, but his pace is nearly equal to Dean's. All he can hear is the tap of his brother's shoes behind him, but it's more than enough to spur him on.

He leads them past the first entrance, until they're descending through old alleys into the _barrios_ in the south, breathing heavily as Sam's fingertips graze his shoulder.

If he could just lose Sam-twist around a corner and leave him, it would be okay. Because Alastair wouldn't know he'd cheated, and Sam wouldn't die, and he wants to tell Sam this, but he's not allowed.

He can feel Sam slow behind him a few blocks later and pushes through his own fatigue, spinning around a hidden corner until Sam disappears and he's safe.

Dean clenched his hands and tries to quiet his breaths, panting against the wall of the alley as fear could in his belly. His Sam had even found him was unthinkable, but why he was here confused him even further.

He doesn't have any warning before something slams into him, pushes him up against the bricks and knocks the breath from his lungs. He tries to jab out at the attacker, but they use their whole body to pin him, and they're-

Tall. He inhales frantically, smells something he can only describe as _Sam_, a scent unforgettable even through the last four months, a memory that slams into him and cracks the shell around him even further. No. This can't be happening-

"Dean!" Sam shouts, dodging the sloppy punch he throws in return as he grabs his shoulders, shaking him. "Hey hey hey! Dean! Stop it!"

He turns his face away and stops fighting, feels the imprint of Sam's fingers on his shoulders like fire.

"Look at me." Sam orders, but he can't. That's not part of the deal. He keeps his eyes down, smothers the urge to pull Sam down and never let go of him.

"Dean." Sam says again, angry now, but he can hear the edge of panic in his voice. "Goddamnit. You look at me. Please."

"Sammy." He croaks, because he could never deny Sam a thing in his power. He feels the fear rise in his belly, emotions ripping through what had been blank for so long until he moves, raises his eyes just that fraction until they meet hazel, and the world unfolds before him.

"Sam."

His brother smiles, but Dean can see the sadness in it as he speaks. "Yeah, that's my name, Dean. Glad you remembered."

"What are you doing-doing-" he breaks off, feeling nausea roll in his stomach as his watch catches the light of the streetlight above them. "-here?" He shifts to the left a little, trying to keep Sam off-balance enough until he can escape.

Sam's eyes track his movements keenly, his soft smile becoming a frown. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"I know what you did, Dean. You're not leaving." Sam positions himself in front of the mouth of the alley, until all Dean can make out is the shadows across his cheekbones. "You're not going back to _him_."

Dean snarls, taking a step forward. "Get out of the way. Now."

"No." Sam says petulantly. "You're staying right here. With me."

"You don't understand!" Dean nearly screams, desperate as he sees the watch out of the corner of his eye. "You're going to-you have to let me go. Now."

"Going to what? Die, Dean?" Sam asks, snorting. "Dean, I know all about it! Alastair, everything!"

Dean freezes. "Don't say his name." He whispers, feeling numb even at the mention of it.

"The Dean I know wasn't scared of anyone." Sam throws back, eyes glittering with malice. "He would've fought back from day one, with a gun in one hand and a smile!"

"Why are you here?"

Sam smiles. "To save the Righteous Man." He says formally. "And my brother."

"He's got people on you." Dean warns. "Snipers, sleepers. Everyone. I don't even know how many."

Sam smiles at that. "I know. I've actually become friends with one of them."

"Friends?" Dean exclaims. "No. You can't. He's going to find out, and you're-"

"-Going to be right here. With you. We're killing Alastair, and you're leaving the East Coast."

"I'm sorry." Dean whispers, mind spinning out of control. He can't breathe, can't think. Can't break through the maelstrom of emotions pouring through him.

"Sorry?"

"It was for you. Only for you. Please don't be mad at me."

"You're safe." Sam says, walking forward. he goes willingly to his arms as he repeats it. "You're safe, Dean."

And for the first time in months, Dean believes it.

"And you're never going to see his face again." Sam breathes into his hair.

"Unless it's in pieces. "

Sam smiles, huffing a laugh breathlessly. "That too."

* * *

Alastair set the phone down on the hotel room's table and took his coat off, placing it on the coat with a dismissive glance at the clock. It's nearly twelve, and his boy is missing. Sill missing, which is beginning to piss him off.

He stands there for a few minutes, running through all the places Dean could've gone, checking his phone periodically as he opens the complimentary bottle of bourbon that came with the suite. He savors the first sip, leaning back against the polished table with a sigh.

A noise off to his left shakes him out if his reverie, makes him spin quickly until he's facing the empty couch. He feels a mixture of anger and relief as Dean stretches out on the couch, stony-faced.

"Do I need to ask where you were?" He intones dangerously, taking a slow step forward. Dean doesn't respond, elegant lines of the suit outlining every perfect curve in his body as he sprawls out along the couch.

"Silent tonight, hmm?" He asks, standing between Dean's knees, sliding a hand up his cheek. "Good work on D'Angelo. Very good. The security team was very impressed. I have another job lined up for tomorrow already."

He feels a pang of irritation as Dean remains stoic, unmoving as he stares at the wall behind his shoulder. "Did you hear me? I said-"

"I heard." Dean said, eyes a bright green as he makes eye contact for the first time all night. "No."

"No?" Alastair asks, flabbergasted. "Did you just say _no_?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow, and it's like his whole personality's changed. He stands up, fluid as he looks down at Alastair.

"No."

Alastair growls, seizes Dean by his throat in a vicious grip. "Need I remind you exactly WHY you're doing this? Do I have to call Meg, hmm?"

"You need to back off." Someone says behind him. Alastair spins again, finds himself trapped between two people. Sam Winchester smiles down at him, all fake-humor and politeness as they lock eyes.

"I don't believe we've met yet." He says pleasantly, re hint a hand forward. "I'm Sam. You know, Dean's brother. The one you almost killed?" He takes a step closer, leaning down until they're almost eye to eye. "And I say almost, because its never going to happen."

Alastair feels his eyes widen, but doesn't back up. "Meg should've-"

"Meg traded teams." Sam said, amused. "I'd pick your double agents better next time. She has beef with you, but nothing like mine."

As if on cue, Dean moves behind him, coming to stand next to Sam. He gazes threateningly at Alastair, who finally takes a step back.

"You see, you took something that was mine, and mine alone. And you twisted it. You warped Dean in ways even I can't imagine." He pauses, smiles back at Dean as if to assure him no offense. "You did things I don't even think I would do. And I would do lots with him. Trust me."

Alastair bares his teeth. "And?" He sneers, but he can feel the sweat beading on his face. Can almost smell the fear that must be leaking from him. Dean's chain had disappeared, and nothing protected him now.

"And, I almost feel sorry for you."

He double-takes. That was the last thing he'd expected. "Sorry for me?" He asks incredulously, laughing. "What?"

Sam takes a step back, smiling as Dean moves forward. Alastair doesn't back up this time, but it's not because of bravery. There's something dark in Dean's eyes, something deep and fluid that he'd never taught him. Sam smirks as he sees the expression on his face, leaning in to say something in Dean's ear.

"-five minutes-" He hears, muffled. Sam presses something into Dean's hand before he walks out, leaving him facing the only student he'd ever had.

"You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'" Dean begins, words flowing smoothly from his mouth as he paces forward. "For the wages of sin is death, and thus you are charged."

Alastiar throws his head back, laughs a laugh he doesn't feel. "Some scripture before I die, Dean? Can the Righteous Man judge he who made him?"

Dean brings the knife up, holding it tantalizingly close to Alastair. "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, for I am the Lord, and my wrath is law."

With a jab the knife's embedded in his chest, hilt barely peeking through as Dean drives it deeper and deeper. Alastair screams as he falls to the ground, throwing his head back as blood spurts around the blade.

"Your portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death." Dean whispers to him, holding his body still as his life-blood flows out of him.

Alastair moves a hand, but Dean blocks him, slashing him across the face until all he can see is blood. His vision completely whites out just as Dean leans in, low voice no longer that of the Righteous Man's.

"That was for Sam, you son of a bitch."

* * *

A/N Liked it? Have a super awesome request? Leave me a review below, and tell me what you thought! :)


	20. Chapter 20: And On

A/N For Evanescent Cumberbabe, who wanted smut, and for my beta, who got herself laid up with a concussion and wanted some preseries!Dean. Thank you so much for your reviews, 'cause I don't know where I'd be without them. You guys rock, and don't forget to request and review below!

I messed around a little bit with the timeline for "Tall Tales" with this one. Please forgive any mistakes, as they are purely mine this week. :)

Also! It's come to my attention that this fic has been rated k for the last twenty chapters. How that slipped by me is baffling, but rest assured I have changed it.

* * *

Stanford's the opposite direction as Dean steers the Impala into the college parking lot, and it's like a dull ache at the back of his mind. Even across the country, California's still lit up like a flare in his mind, bright and intense and so important, he can feel it in his bones.

He checks the address again and shuts off the car, climbing out with a fluid ease that contradicts the pain if the last few days.

The stars glimmer faintly across the paint of the Impala, making her shine even without the sun. It's not hard to look up at them, but it's almost painful now. He shuts his eyes instead, focuses on the emotion and wipes it from his consciousness as he straightens in more ways than one.

He walks the few blocks in the brisk cold, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. For the first time in a while, it's not leather around his shoulders, and the cotton-wool combination he chose instead is almost flimsy in comparison.

The door of the hall a block ahead reveals warm light as a man pushes it open, releasing a small wave of warm air into the chilly night. Dean focuses on the face, takes a hesitant few steps as he changes his gait, walking timidly towards the professor.

He catches him just as the man reaches the last set of stairs. The professor looks like any uptight, privileged individual, clothed from head to toe in more money than Dean's ever seen in one place before. A handsome jaw and graying, masculine features top the look off, until he can almost feel the arrogant look the professor gives him down his nose before he does it.

"Professor," Dean puts on a small smile, stepping into his path, blocking the stairs. "My name is-"

"Yes, yes, what can I help you with? Did you fail a quiz?" The man asks distractedly, not even glancing at him as he tries to step around the stairs.

"No, sir, I'm actually-" Hecuts him off again.

"Failing my class?" Arthur Cox glances up for the first time, eyes narrowing. "You'll have to understand, that is not my fault nor my problem. My office hours are..." He trails off, eyes widening as they land on Dean. He can see the pupils dilate even from where he's standing, can feel the soft puff of air that escapes the professor's lips as they stare at each other.

He breaks the silence first. "I was hoping I could see you now."

"Well, if it's really important..." He looks Dean up and down slowly, eyes sliding over his body like snakes across his skin. "I'm sure we can make time. You've been waiting out here in the cold so nicely, and all."

Dean smiles innocently, lets his eyes widen, star-struck. "I wouldn't want to bother, Professor. It's just, I love your class so much. I wouldn't want to fail it. You're so..." He lets his eyes wander just a little bit. "...captivating."

"It's no problem at all." The professor says, waving a hand up towards the hall. "We can talk in my office, if you'd like. It's warm in there, at least."

Dean laughs. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me."

The professor's already distracted, leading them up the stairs and into the warm hall, holding the door for Dean. "Oh, I'm sure I do."

Dean smiles and doesn't say anything at all.

"So, you can put your coat there, before we talk." Arthur Cox says as he unlocks the room and walks over to the desk. Dean complies, feels appreciative eyes on him as he turns around. He's wearing a skin-tight long sleeved shirt, and it clings exactly how he knew it would. The dark jeans and spiked hair add to the act, until there's hardly any _Dean_ glimmering out from underneath.

He doesn't take a seat, instead walking forward almost shyly, until his hips press against the desk and he's mere feet from the professor. Smiling, he runs an absent hand down the wood in slow, tantalizing circles.

"I have a confession to make," Dean says, peering through lashes at the other man. "I'm not in any of your classes."

He sees surprise flicker across the man's face, but it doesn't seem to stop him. Cox reclines slowly, patronizing even as desire hints in his eyes.

"Why would you lie about that...?"

"Call me Dean." He says timidly.

"Dean. It's perfectly normal for someone of your...age...to feel drawn to someone of my social standing. Frankly, it's almost acceptable these days, considering I'm practically a celebrity around here. You feel intimidated by my success, so you lied about being in one of my classes."

"I'm sorry, professor." He tilts his head down ashamedly, blush helped along by the chill he can still feel in his fingertips. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Offend me?" The man uncurls from the chair, giving Dean a curious look as he moves around the desk. They're almost touching, inches apart. "Not at all, Dean. It's hard to offend someone so used to criticism. I am an author, after all."

Dean nods along with this, sees the man's hand brush across the cover of a book carefully positioned on his desk. Cox's face is proudly displayed on the front, handsome and smiling out at the reader almost victoriously.

"I read your book." He breathes out, eyes widening.

The professor isn't even looking at him anymore, has his beady eyes aimed at Dean's lips instead. "And did you like it, Dean?"

He swallows, covering the distance until they're even closer, leaning forward until all he can do is whisper. "I think I still have a lot to learn, Professor."

The tension peaks, and Cox grabs the back of his neck, pulling him forward and crushing their mouths together. He feels a thud, recognizes the feeling of the desk under his fingers a second later as the older man pushes him down on the flat surface.

The professor kisses him furiously, fingers sliding clothing off hungrily as Dean remains pliant. He restrains a shudder as the man's hands ghost across his chest, pressing kisses there as he undoes his jeans.

Dean fingers the knife he'd strapped to his ankle, pushing the other man's hands aside as he reaches for his own jeans, tugging on the professor's shirt until it slides up, feels-

_-feels Sam twist underneath him as he pulls the last of their clothes off, feels his brother's fear and delight like it's his own. He pushes down until they're completely pressed together, until he can feel Sam's heart thudding against his chest, matching his in a stuttering second._

_"Sam," He grits his teeth, "We don't have to do this. Not if you don't want-" It's hard for him to force the words out, and they sting his lips but he **has** to. Has to offer that option, somehow._

_Sam's eyes catch his instantly, reading the doubt there like he'd been able to for years. "Second thoughts already?"_

_Dean breaks the contact, grabbing Sam's face in his hands. "I'm asking you."_

_"No." Sam replies immediately, tip-tilted eyes flicking up to meet his. "No. God, Dean. No. Can't you...feel it?"_

_"Feel it?" Dean asks numbly, surprised as Sam shifts underneath him, runs a hand down his chest until he reaches his heart. He breathes in, startled as Sam presses down sharply. His heart rate jumps past where it was before as he gazes at Sam, confused. His brother winds arms around his shoulders, presses them together until they're back where they started, cradled in each other eyes._

_"I won't leave you behind." Sam murmurs into his neck. "Not this way."_

_Dean feels a wave of sadness as Sam's voice breaks, but he doesn't contemplate the reason. He leans down and presses a small kiss to Sam's lips, soft and chaste._

_His brother stares, wide-eyed as Dean leans back, but the shock only lasts a second. He grabs Dean's neck and **pulls**, dragging him down on top of him until they're kissing hungrily, until Dean realizes why they took their clothes off in the first place-_

Cox smiles, nips up Dean's collarbone until he draws away, leaving absent space behind as the sound of foil ripping fills the room.

Dean springs into action the second the man's out of sight, sliding a hand into his jeans until his fingers press into the hilt of the knife he'd strapped there. He pulls it free gently, careful not to cut himself as he switches it to his other hand.

The professor's on him seconds after he manages to slide the knife under some papers off to the side, pulling his jeans off almost forcefully as he slots himself against Dean. What he must have been doing up here with other students disgusts him, and the distaste grows as he feels the older man try to push his legs apart roughly as-

_-as he pushes into Sam, it feels like coming home. His brother still has his arms around his neck, hands splayed across his back as he feels Sam gasp under him. It's right, hot and tight and amazing in too many ways to count in the one second it takes to experience it. He doesn't start rough, pushes with long slides until Sam's groaning beneath him, until they're too far gone to care-_

_-_as Cox tries to shove inside without preparation, and Dean takes it without a thought. He grabs the knife from under the papers, holds it against the professor's throat until-

-_until Sam nearly screams as he comes, arms and body tightening around Dean as they both shudder out their release. He feels tears running down his face, doesn't know why until he sees Sam beneath him, unconscious as-_

-as Cox goes motionless, eyes bugging outwards as Dean holds the cold metal against his neck and savors the fear he can feel in the man who'd caused enough pain to warrant some of his own. He reaches out, grabs the hair and pulls the head back, slices clean across the throat until pours down onto the desk, and not a drop gets on Dean as he-

-_as he __runs a hand through sweaty hair, feeling a crushing wave of fear and love swell inside of him as he cradles his brother close, whispers-_

-whispers a promise to the man's dead body, inscribes it in the blood on the desk to Sam-

-_I will always-_

_-_protect you-

-_Sammy-_

* * *

The honey-eyed janitor doesn't look up as the lights flicker above him, gazes instead at the steps below, which needed washing weeks ago. He sighs as he sees movement out of the corner of his eye from the _professor's_ office, avoiding looking up at the building as he ponders tomorrow's chores.

He startles as the window unlatches, slamming against the brick of the hall with a sharp sound. Finally, he looks up, and wishes he hadn't.

The professor himself tumbles ungracefully from the edge of the window, drenched in blood as he hits the ground not four feet from him with a dull thud. The janitor stares, open-mouthed as a figure moves in the shadows above, disappearing before the professor's body had time to settle.

* * *

A/N Liked it? Want more? Have a really awesome request? Leave me a review below! :)


	21. Chapter 21: Turn The Page

A/N For my (still) concussed beta, and for everyone who reviewed, because you guys make my day! Thank you so much for simply being awesome.

A rough re-write outsider!POV of "Jus in Bello". What can I say? I was having fun with the episode parallels:)

* * *

Doug can't even remember how he wound up on the bed, but his perception skills always worked better than his memory, so he takes in his environment instead of wondering where he was.

The bed he was laying on was mediocre, a thin matters over what felt like sheet rock. He felt the dull pound of alcohol in his head as he tried to move, swallowing down a wave of nausea as noise echoed around him.

"-Special Agent-" A snatch of conversation hit him. "-fugitive-"

He blearily opened his eyes, finding himself face-down on a sagging, stained and undoubtedly government-issued mattress. By the time his vision focused enough to look up, he'd already figured out where he was.

Again.

It started to come back to him in short clips, like bursts of emotions across his fuzzy mind as he fought with his stomach to settle. Something about multiple shots of homemade moonshine had seemed like a good idea to him hours (days?) ago, stupidly. Stupid, stupid, his old man woulda said. No good for nothing, and he'd sure done exactly that road in life, alcohol, bitterness and all.

He patted his pockets down just in case, 'cause people stole stuff from old men in jail, holding cell be damned, but his cheap cell phone and a few other small objects were still there. It wouldn't've been the first time he'd "lost" something in holding.

"-hell you are!" Echoed down the hall a second later, making him duck his head and cringe as his hungover brain took another beating. Whoever the police was arguing with was yelling, something about something that was just sorta slurred together and meaningless to Doug.

"-most dangerous-" The agent was saying, and he winced again as something slammed into the table. Would it kill them to keep it down?

He grumbled this into his arm, but his slightly-worn sleeve didn't reply. Fucker.

After a few minutes of blessed silence, he managed to fall into a light doze, tinged with guilt as he remembered the things he'd done in the last few hours. Before he could even delve into that, though, the goddamn officers woke him up again.

"What's he in for?" The agent from before asked loudly, voice affirmative above him. He sounded like every other tootin-their-own-horn sonuvabitch from the FBI, all orders and no emotion.

"Drunken disorderly." Another officer said, and the voice was almost familiar this time. The man who'd locked him up last time sounded a lot like him. Maybe it was the same guy. He cringed anyway at the words, even though he was a grown man and it was his own guilt to live with.

Damn straight, he could hear his dad saying. My son, the disorderly drunk. Get it? Cause you're drunk?

"Keys." The FBI man said, and there was plenty of snobbishness in the order, even though it was only one syllable.

He heard the door to the cell open up, but didn't move. A shout from the officer confirmed his suspicions as a hand descended on his shoulder.

"You can't do that!" The officer sounded panicked.

"Watch me."

Doug felt the hand shake his shoulder and opened his eyes again, blearily landing on the agent's face.

"This is your lucky night, sir. You're free to go."

Doug rolled over, stomach be damned, and looked at the officer for confirmation. It _was_ the man from before, the Sheriff, who went red in the face before conceding.

He stood on shaky legs and followed the man out, feeling a sense of confusion as the two men disappeared before he even made it down the hallway.

He saw light ahead and followed it, finding the loading station with a sigh of relief as his knees nearly gave out beneath him. He collapsed on a nearly out of sight loading bench and breathed heavily, feeling every vibration of noise like a nail through the head.

It wasn't long before he started hearing _it._ The rhythmic drag and clink of chains pulsing through every sense he had. It was like a steady drumbeat from the recesses of hell, the crude _slip-slide_ of the chains and the dulled thumps of feet on stone.

He couldn't explain why he opened his eyes, but suddenly they were staring straight ahead, wide with something akin to fear as someone shuffled down the hallway, casting a long shadow against the wall.

He swallowed hard, smothering a gasp as no less than four guards led a single prisoner towards the other end of the building, chains wrapped around every limb and shackled tight around the tall man. They moved at a snail's pace through the shadows, hands tight on the chains even as the man seemed to be leading them.

They entered the light and stopped, pausing as men handed off paperwork and people moved in a flurry around the prisoner. He was barely over twenty, tall and lithe with a strong frame even Doug could see through baggy shirts and bloodstained jeans. His face was half-covered, hidden beneath long chestnut hair as he waited almost patiently amid the chaos around him.

He shuddered at the thought of what made him dangerous enough to warrant full-body shackles.

"-have Sam Winchester-" He heard from the other room, where the bone-headed agent had stalked off to. He froze, eyes flicking back to the still motionless man not ten feet away from him.

It couldn't be.

The motion must have caught his attention, because Winchester lifted his head slowly, eyes finding Doug's in a nanosecond, narrowing slightly before a sly smile edged across his face.

He felt the effects of the alcohol drain away from his mind as his eyes caught hazel and his whole body went numb. Sam Winchester stared him down with a feral glint to his eyes, lips pursed into the slightest of smiles as they locked gazes.

He was ten feet from Sam Winchester. _Sam Winchester_.

He couldn't move as Sam continued to stare him down, and what struck him the most as he stared back was his _young _he was. There was a youthful tinge to his skin, smooth over elegant cheekbones and almost delicately masculine features. The eyes were where that changed, though. Sam Winchester had old eyes, eyes that had seen Hell and _reveled_ in it.

The agents came back and suddenly everything sped up again, blurring back into reality as Sam gave him one last smile before they led him off to the cell Doug'd vacated. The offciers hadn't seen him. He breathed out heavily, struggling to his feet like hell itself was on his heels, but his hands slipped at the last minute, bringing his head to crack down on the hard wood beneath him as everything went black.

* * *

He woke to the feeling of something creeping across his skin, and wasted no time shaking himself awake this time.  
One thing his dad'd taught him was his to save his own skin, and that's exactly what he did.

Nobody was in the office anymore, but he wasn't stopping to check either. In his hurry out, nothing else mattered but escaping. Bad things followed Winchesters, and however long he'd been out was another mark against his chances of staying far, far away from them.

Nobody noticed him slipping out the back door, stumbling and slow even as his heart pounded faster than it ever had in his entire life. He was about forty feet into the parking lot when he felt an intense heat behind him, followed seconds later by a wave of power that threw him off his feet.

He landed in a ball under one of the fake trees that surrounded the parking lot, ears ringing as he spotted the remains of the police station up in flames.

Two figures darted past him, almost to quick to see as they sprinted down the blacktop. He barely glanced at them, too enamored with the fires he could see out of the corner of his eye. Staring up at the decimated station, the threat of death had felt so real.

Lucky night indeed.

* * *

A/N Leave me a review? :) Thank you for reading!


	22. Chapter 22: Start Of The Breakdown

A/N After a long talk with my beta, I'm not sure if this series is going to continue. It seems like support for more chapters is drying up, and if it weren't for LeeMarieJack and EclipseWing, I'm not sure we'd be where we are today. I love writing in this universe, and I have many more chapters planned out, but I'm running on empty when it comes to you guys. Please let me know if you think this should continue, or if it's lived its life out as is.

Thanks to my beta as always, and to the everyone who reviewed. I have high hopes for this story. Please let me know I'm not alone. Thank you.

* * *

He hits Broward County next, not only because it's nearby but it almost seems like a natural progression of things; Sam went through the town weeks earlier and never left, and though it's the closest he'd been near his brother in years, but he won't break rules this time. Only dance a step or two along with the lead, and sneak a surprise of his own in as well.

It's daring, it's thrilling, and it's like playing with the hottest fire ever. Sam can't see him, never has unless he's wanted him to, but the very possibility of it happening nearly drives him mad on the journey south, all the way from New York to Broward.

If it's strange to feel a kinship with a place he's never been, he doesn't question it as the Impala purrs down the main road. The streets seem to vibrate with anticipation, as if the very buildings could feel the near-sacred distance between them shorten, fold and crumble. He turns into a motel and parks, already scoping out the neighborhood as his baby cools beneath his hands, black paint gleaming in the low evening sun.

After getting a room he heads to the nearest diner, surreptitiously checking the missing posters on the storefront as he walks by. Sam's been busy, too busy for one small town, but it's too crafty for the police to comprehend for now. Accidents happened in Broward County, from falling objects to numerous hit-and-runs. How Sam pulled off a dog mauling baffles him, but he can see the appeal of watching something rip into someone else, to be the one holding the reins of life and death. It's more symbolic than he'll ever admit to, but the dark pride he feels at recognizing Sam's _modus operandi_ gets him every time. Broward county's Sam playground, and Dean doesn't wanna do anything but watch his brother play. If Sam had been trying for ridiculousness, he'd succeeded.

He sees flashing lights as he exits the diner, lined up along the street two blocks down. The town's only three squad cars cordon off the entrance to the house as an ambulance rushes to the doorstep over the lawn, siren blaring.

"Oh dear." A woman mutters next to him, mouth going to her mouth in shock. A child grips her arm, grandson maybe, dragging her away from the scene with her hand still over her mouth. Dean puts his own to his mouth, but to hide a smile instead of a gasp as he sees another domino fall.

Accidents don't just happen accidentally.

* * *

He returns twenty minutes later wearing the one suit he owns, sunglasses on and badge handy. The pale officer standing at the tape waves him through with a half-hearted glance at the FBI insignia, looking more inclined to lose his lunch than defend the scene from intruders. It had to be hard working in small towns, where nothing exciting ever happened.

The inside of the home was small, modest in appearance and furniture. No one's downstairs, so he climbs the first flight he sees and flashes his badge at yet another stunned deputy before he's wheedled into the scene. An overweight-looking man intercepts him before he can make it to the end of the hallway, wearing a jacket with the words SHERIFF across the lapel.

"Agent Young., FBI." He says, holding up his badge for the third time as the squinty-eyed cop glares at him suspiciously. The man's expression goes lax as he sees the badge, though, and Dean can't help but smirk to himself at the confusion in the man's eyes. Probably doesn't know a thing about first degree homicide, much less combing through a crime scene. "I'm going to need to see the body." If there is one, a voice whispers to him, and it sounds a lot like Sam-

"Damn, you're speedy." The man jokes, loosening an already-loosened tie as he takes a step back, waving towards a taped-off door, all to ready to hand over the reins. "Body's in the bathroom, but I gotta warn you. It ain't pretty."

"I don't deal with pretty." Dean mutters to himself, walking past the paler-by-the-minute deputy still standing watch by the stairs as he heads for the door.

Inside is a full bathroom, wide and tall with expensive glass appliances decorating every corner. A large bathtub takes up half of the room, deep enough to have a whole football team fit and more. Marble sinks line the countertops, covered in makeup bottles and tubes.

The center of the room, though, is littered with shattered glass and blood. A whole sheet of the shower is missing, scattered across the room along with what looks like skull fragments mixed in between the shattered pieces. A man's naked body lays face down on top of the glass, blood still dripping from a cut hidden from view. Dean takes a few steps to the right, avoiding blood as he takes a closer look.

From the side, the body's even more gruesome. Half the man's face is missing, smashed to a bloody pulp against what looks like the shower wall. The glass is thick, he notices, and the shards are wide enough to look almost like cubes in the light, like safety glass.

Safety glass. He snorts to himself, then shows himself out back to where the flustered sheriff had been.

"Sheriff." He throws a hand out politely as he finds the man sitting a few rooms over. "I never got your name."

"Sheriff Clark. David Clark." The man says, hand sweat in his. "What can I help you with, Agent?"

"Details." He sits down next to him, pulling out a notepad for appearances. "What do you have so far?"

The sheriff swallows. "You mean leads, witnesses and stuff?" At Dean's nod, he continues. "Well, we got one dead guy, a crying wife in the other room and lotsa nothing. Guy tripped, smashed his face open and died."

"You don't think it's a murder." Dean states. The sheriff shakes his head.

"Wife heard him slip and fall on her way up the stairs. The bathroom only has one window, and it was locked. No way anyone coulda gotten in there. Sometimes accidents just happen."

"Right." Dean says after a moment. "Though you have a lot of accidents happening lately, don't you?"

The sheriff seems to shrink into himself, eyes narrowing even further defensively. "And why would the FBI be interested in that?"

"Just curious." Dean doesn't gloat, but he stands with more eagerness than he should at a crime scene. "I'm gonna take one last look at the body and I'll be outta your hair. Thank you for your time, sheriff."

Clark waves him off down the hallway with a small cough. He can see the medical examiner's truck pull outside through the bathroom window, starts counting down the seconds as he tries to understand how Sam did it.

It must've been a shove, because even a full grown man couldn't "slip" that hard into a pane of glass, or damage his head that severely on his own. On further glance, the window was locked just like the sheriff said, adding to the enigma. How did Sam get in and out without getting caught, especially with wet clothing? Someone would've noticed a sopping six-foot some giant walking down the street. It's not like his brother's invisible, especially when wet. More like a sopping puppy, but if Sam knew that he'd be in a world of trouble.

He nods to the examiner, and with one last look at the body he's out the door and on the way back to the motel. On the ride back he shucks the suit coat off, loosens the tie as well as his amulet rubs against the inside of his collar. He pulls into the motel and parks, grabs the key from his pocket and unlocks the door in one swift, practiced motion. The less time he spent in sight, the better.

The second he gets inside the room, he knows something's wrong. Call it a predatory instinct, but he's out of the doorway and against the wall in a second, hands scrabbling for his gun as his heart rate climbs.

The attack comes impossibly from behind him, though, and he feels a needle plunge into his neck before everything goes black.

* * *

He wakes on the ground, suit pants slippery beneath him as he struggles to his knees. Whatever he was dosed with makes him woozy, splits the images he sees into twos and threes until standing up seems like a challenge. He pants, curling over himself as a wave of nausea rolls through him.

He hears light footsteps, and a man's shape comes into view above him, blurry to his eyes. He feels the man's hands ruffle through his pockets, taking his gun and badge out. He studied the badge for a second, face inscrutable as he holds it up.

"Call me Dean." He manages a weak smile for comparison, but the person doesn't seem to be amused. It's not the first time he's been kidnapped, but he's sure as hell gonna make it the last. He can't even move, much less escape.

Instead of answering, the person shifts to his right and grabs something in his hand before Dean can see it. He blinks away some of the blurriness, focusing his eyes on the man standing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" He calls out weakly, shit-eating grin back in place. "If you're gonna kidnap someone, you should at least make sure they aren't bored!"

The man disappears with a flash of luminous blue eyes, stepping around a doorway Dean didn't even know was there. A second later, another figure appears, slightly shorter than the first.

"Finally." He says loudly, feeling a little more confident as the drug wears off little by little. "Tell me you're more charming than the other guy. Or that you talk. Please tell me you talk."

"Oh, I talk alright." The man says, coming closer and kneeling right in front of him. Gold eyes meet his, oddly familiar as they stare into his own eyes. He resists the urge to back up as the man leans closer. "Do you know who I am?"

"I think you should be asking yourself that question, if you don't know." Dean smirks, expects the slap he gets across the face. Definitely not his first rodeo.

The man grabs his shirt, dragging him closer until he's hissing into his ear. "You killed my mother. And I'm the one who's gonna avenge her death."

Dean leans back, punch drunk. "Lemme tell you. The road to revenge is a long one, my friend." He pats him on the shoulder, ignoring the glare he gets. More darkly, he says. "And if I killed your mother, she deserved it."

"Deserved it?" The man growls, shoving him to the floor which he inevitably hits. Hard. "No one deserves death. No one."

Dean raises an eyebrow from where he'd fallen on the floor. "Still got a death penalty, brother. And trust me, I've met plenty of people who deserved-"

"Deserved it?" The man repeats, raising his own eyebrow to mock Dean. "Like the professor you threw out a window a few months ago?"

Dean raises both eyebrows now, surprised. "And how do you know about that?" The man pushes a finger into his chest, furious.

"I know because I saw you kill him. I saw his body fall covered in blood and watched his brains spill out over the sidewalk. I saw-"

"You saw justice." Dean says firmly, all laughter gone. "He was raping students, day after day. You think I'd kill him over nothing?"

The man wastes no time responding. "Yes."

"No. He got exactly what he deserved, nothing less. Just Desserts, really."

The man shakes his head, emotion apparent in his eyes. "No, you're wrong. I know what Just Desserts are. I've dished out a few of my own, and let me tell you, it's nothing like that!"

Dean sighs, but doesn't concede. "What, you put nair in someone's shampoo to get back? That's not real justice. Grow up."

"Real justice is reporting him to the police. Real justice isn't throwing people out _windows.__"_

Dean whistles, long and low. "Boy, what stuff you been smoking? Life isn't fair. Get over it."

The man behind him shifts, and Dean focuses in on him for the first time. Blue eyes stare wide at him, but besides the movement he's silent.

"Life isn't fair, but I would reconsider your situation." The other man continues, gold eyes filled with what Dean guesses is "righteous" fury. "We brought you here to kill you."

Dean sneers, knowing the odds and disregarding them. "Go ahead."

"Alright." The man pulls out a gun, placing it against his temple.

"How you like them apples?"

* * *

A/N Please review! Should I keep going?


	23. Chapter 23: (Never Break) The Chain

A/N To everyone who reviewed last chapter-you broke my heart. Thank you for the support and reviews. This story is definitely moving forward, and my beta came along this time!

Many thanks to all of you awesome people. Here's a longer chapter for you.

* * *

"I like them just fine." Dean says cockily, outward completely at ease with the gun aimed at his head. "But preferably not pointing at me, maybe. Can't sell thin mints with a hole in my head."

The man's expression changes slightly, to one of disbelief. "You're just gonna joke when I've got a gun against your head?"

Dean shrugs. "I've been in front of guns before. Kinda like riding a bike. Now torture, that's a little different. See, it's all about-"

The man cuts him off with an angry gesture of his hand, dropping the gun to his side. Dean notices how he takes a step in front of the other man, files it away for further contemplation.

"You're one sick puppy, you know that?"

Dean shrugs again. "I've been told."

"Anyone ever just pull the trigger?"

He smiles, flicking a hand down his chest, watches their eyes track every movement. "You wanna see the scars?"

He unbuttons the top of the dress shirt, revealing every last scar, mark and tattoo that's proven his existence. It's a fairly extensive collection, though he knows Sam's back is worse.

Both men go silent. Or just the one who was talking. The other man, the blue-eyed one, remains motionless, eyes wide and almost naive as he stands behind his partner.

"Didn't think so."

He buttons up the shirt with a smirk, a smirk which nearly slips as his finger slides across the scar Sam gave him during their first fight. _Sam_. Where the hell was he?

"So, are we gonna dance, or can I have a moment?"

At the mockery, the man's gun goes up again. "Don't move."

Dean holds his hands up. "Wasn't thinking about it."

Gold eyes narrow minutely. "I said don't move!"

Dean holds his hands out. "Jesus, is everyone's first kidnapping this high-strung? I mean, at least you're not pulling the cliched Winchester storyline." He points out, mocking himself mercilessly, knows the press does too. "You didn't bring baby bro along for the ride."

A pause, and a strange moment of tension grips the room as the two kidnappers share a quick, worried flash of a glance.

Dean raises his eyebrows, honestly surprised for the first time all night. "Oh. _Oh._ You've gotta be kidding me. _Brothers_?"

The blue-eyed man shifts almost unconsciously towards his (older?) brother, eyes burning with something almost more intense than what the gold-eyed man was showing.

Dean threw his head back and laughed, ignoring the tingling in his limbs that meant he still couldn't walk. It was just too damn funny, really, the awkward glances and protective stances. _Brothers_. Ha.

"What's so damn funny?" The man at the front muttered irritably, even as he took yet another step closer to his sibling.

"Ah, nothing." Dean pauses, considering. "So I killed your mommy?" He directs towards the blue-eyed man.

"You-" the man lunges forward, only to be caught by his much-shorter brother. "I'm going to kill you."

"I thought shortie fire over here was gonna do that?" Dean asks honestly, pointing at the other man. "He has the gun and all. I worked that out with Sam a _while_ ago, cause lemme tell you, that whole dominance thing is-"

"Shut up." The shorter man glares at Dean, and hell if he wasn't the older brother. "Enough, Castiel." He says to the blue-eyed man, wrapping a hand around his shoulder and pulling him back towards the door. "We'll wait for Sam, and then we'll kill them. I swear, okay?" At this his brother looks down, unsure.

"Look at me, Cas." The older brother says, grabbing his brother's face gently. "We're gonna do this, you and me together. Okay?"

Dean bites the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. He could almost imagine Sam sitting next to him, sprawled out lazily against his shoulder. _And who does that sound like, Dean?_ And they would smile, because they both already knew the answer.

Castiel (And what a strange name that was) nods finally, pulling his brother's hands into his own. "Okay, Gabriel. Alright."

"Can I just say," Dean points his finger at them, adding his two cents. "Y'all have some jacked-up names. Seriously."

Gabriel's eyes narrow again, which almost looks kind of scary on him, for some reason. "Our mother named us."

Dean shrugs. "Figures."

He receives two glares this time, but Castiel pulls Gabriel back before he could lunge at Dean. The two men disappear behind the door from before, leaving Dean alone.

Woo.

* * *

Sam got the impression something was wrong in the middle of chopping through a dead man's neck with an axe, which, unbelievably, was almost unheard of for him. The cut he'd made when the man was alive had only just barely nicked bone, and it was pissing him off. He'd bled out, yeah, but decapitation was meant to be finished in one graceful movement, not thirty minutes later with a rusty axe that wouldn't cut through anything if you paid it.

He manages, after thirty more seconds of frustrating chopping, to separate the head from its trunk. Sighing, he leans the axe against the wall a few feet from his hand and fixes the body with an annoyed look.

Next up is burning the whole place down, exactly what he'd told the now-dead owner of the building he was standing in. The creepy pseudo fair-attraction-funhouse was enough to make anyone want to burn it to the ground, what with the whirling green walls and fake, disfigured objects strewn around the whole place.

He figured he was just helping the place along, and in all honesty, he'd had his eye on the building ever since he'd gotten to Broward County.

With thinly veiled amusement he grabs the cans he'd brought in and starts uncapping them, dousing the body liberally before spreading the gasoline across the floor, along the walls. The fumes irritate his nose, but the smell is so cloyingly familiar he ignores it.

Dean's old lighter's a warm weight in his hand, and he clasps it in his palm before lighting it, sliding his fingers into the grooves worn into it by Dean's hand.

The gasoline lights instantly, and he wastes no time grabbing the axe and beating it out of there. The fire crackles as he leaves, and hides the sound of footsteps that fall behind him as he pushes the back door open.

A needle plunges into his neck a second later, bringing sharp pain accompanied by the signature numbing in his fingers and toes. He rocks back on his heels, vision already graying as he automatically jabs out behind him. He feels his hand connect with flesh, a satisfying _crunch _sounding.

He flinches weakly as arms close around him, and everything goes dark.

* * *

Dean's alone for nearly two hours, rubbing and stretching his limbs until the drug finally wears off enough for him to stand. He paces the room he'd only glanced at before, and finds out that they'd actually done one smart thing in the kidnapping from hell he'd ended up in.

It must've been a renovated warehouse, he decides after he discovers the reinforced walls and heavy doors. Of course everything is locked, but it doesn't stop him from banging on everything he can see. He's sure it'll irritate the shorter one, if anything.

Dean's sitting on the ground when the door slams open with a crash, concentrating on remaining calm, of all things as Gabriel and Castiel walk in.

Obviously, the appearance of an unconscious Sam does nothing to help that.

Gabriel drags his brother's body into the room with a furious expression, blood dripping down his face from a large cut across his cheekbone and a bloody nose. Castiel follows his every step, worry evident in his face as he holds hands out to help his brother.

"Gabriel, are you-" Castiel cuts off, voice shuddering. He looks panicked, blue eyes impossibly wide. "You smell like smoke."

Gabriel grunts, heaving Sam onto the floor next to Dean (and how he managed that baffles him) and shoots Dean a look. He gives him a small smirk in reply, unwilling to appear anything but fine.

Even if Sam's unconscious next to him. Which is _not _fine.

Gabriel stares for a second before his features dissolve into a glare, and he hurries out the door. Castiel follows closely, because Gabriel's looking six ways from Sunday like he's gonna hit the ground any minute.

The second they're gone he's up and moving, sliding a soft touch across Sam's forehead. He can see the small changes in his brother like he's reading a book, sees the small frown marks and the sharper lines of his jaw almost instantly as he traces years of change across his brother's face. Even his hair's changed, gone from messy and curled to soft waves across his forehead.

"Sam?" He shakes his shoulder softly, guessing he'd been dosed with the same stuff he got. He smiles a little as he spots flecks of blood across his brother's face. At least Sam had put up a fight.

"Hnnhh?" Sam mumbles, eyes blinking open lazily. He's warm in Dean's hands, and the familiar feeling of it makes him want to draw him into his arms and never let go, it's so strong.

"Hey. Hey, Sammy." He says, holding his face gently as his brother wakes up. "Wanna wake up for me?"

"Dean?" Sam's eyes fly open completely, and only a hand on his brother's hips keeps his brother from jumping up.

"Shh. Calm down. You'll hurt yourself." He says, pushing down gently until Sam settles. "The drug they gave you won't wear off for a while."

Sam's eyes turn slightly glassy at the thought, but his eyes widen in realization. "Oh shit. _Dean_."

He smirks, tamping down on his own panic. "Yep. That's my name. Don't wear it out."

"That joke is so old, man. So old." Sam smacks him weakly, a small smile on his face even as his eyes struggle to focus.

He smiles back, years of separation falling down and disappearing yet again. "Keeps you around."

Sam laughs, but it stutters off into a cough that shakes his whole body. Dean holds him through it, eyebrow raising in concern.

"Gasoline fumes." Sam says, wrinkling his nose. "Which is the least of our problems, considering..."

Dean catches his glance, affronted. "Hey! Why are you putting this on me?"

"You always piss people off. I'm not surprised someone finally kidnapped you!" Sam accuses him, though he can see the teasing glint in his eyes.

Dean glares at him anyway. "You're the one who got jumped by Senor midget and Rainman over there."

"What?"

Dean shakes his head at his brother's confusion. "Never mind." He drops the joking facade for a second, looking over at Sam for the millionth time. "Your head okay?"

"Peachy." Sam says, wincing as he struggles to sit up. Dean holds out a hand out to help him, brushing the corded muscles of his brother's back as his t-shirt slides up. They both pause, and every breath seems ten times louder as thoughts and wants and desires come flooding back, until Dean can remember-

"So you wanna tell me why we got kidnapped?" Sam asks, not meeting Dean's gaze as he scans the room with sharp hazel eyes. They both look away until the moment of tension dissolves, and they return to normal.

"Cause life's a bitch." Dean mutters. Sam, ever the rational one, glares at him. Just before he opens his mouth to respond, footsteps sound through the heavy metal door.

Castiel and Gabriel step into the room, Gabriel looking pale and shaky while Castiel seemed worried. That doesn't stop the gold-haired man from walking forwards swiftly, eyes on Sam as they approach.

"You're who jumped me." Sam says, only half-serious, as if he's about to laugh. "You're not even five four!"

Gabriel's eyes go even darker, and Dean's fear ratchets up a bit as he pulls the gun from earlier from his waistband.

"Wow, you Winchesters sure are comedians. I'll have to put that on your headstones."

Dean raised his eyebrows, feeling Sam's confused gaze on his back. "I'm honored you'd bury us, Gabe."

Gabriel's expression shifts murderously. "Don't call me that." He says darkly, and for a second he can see him pulling the trigger right there, no hesitation.

"Fine." Dean admits. "So, are we gonna get this show on the road? You wanna kill me and Sam?"

Castiel glares at him this time, but says nothing. Gabriel drops the gun a little, but his expression is still dangerous.

"I wanna know why." He says softly, almost child-like, to Sam.

"Why?" His brother asks, honestly confused. "Why what? Why global warming? Why bacon ice cream?"

Gabriel tenses, and the gun goes back up. He points it right into Sam's face, deadly calm. "You killed my mother."

"We killed your mother." Dean clarifies, shifting the blame with only a little panic on his side. Gabriel doesn't seem to hear him.

Sam shrugs, unequivocal. He sits up, a sign that he's interested, at least. "And?"

"And I wanna know why, goddamnit!" Gabriel screams, taking a shaky step forward. "Why in the hell would you fucking kill someone-someone who-" Turning, he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"Why?" He whispers after a second, eyes burning.

Dean sees Sam turn towards him, sees the confusion in his eyes as Gabriel moves even closer, but there's nothing he can do. They didn't-

"Who was your mother?" Sam asks quietly, nearly deferentially, his head bowed in respect towards the unstable man in front of him. He looks almost angelic, eyes wide with an emotion that's timeless to Dean.

Gabriel grits his teeth, hands clenching. "Blonde hair, blue eyes." He gets out, Castiel's hand finding his shoulder. "An angel. Sound familiar?"

Sam's eyes widen and he turns to Dean almost frantically. He hates it, expects the expression before he sees it, but it _hurts_, goddamnit.

"Is he talking about Mom?" He asks softly, eyes wide. "Dean, does he mean _Mom_?"

Dean's silent, feels Castiel's inquisitive eyes on him as Sam grabs his collar, pulling himself weakly off the floor.

"Dean, we didn't kill mom!" Sam's not stating it, he's looking for reassurance. "We-we-"

"We helped her." He finishes for his brother as Sam's eyes well with tears. He's struggling, they're teetering, but it's the truth. "We sent her to heaven, remember Sammy?"

Sam nods hysterically, eyes still wide. "She's sleeping now, Dean. We saved her." He turns to the other men, confident. Dean averts his gaze.

"We didn't kill her."

_He takes her from Sam as they get close, and by now she's cold, colder than the chilly air. It's wrong, but he's going to fix this. It just takes a moment, but sometimes it's the longest of the whole year._

"We didn't kill her, Sammy." He affirms, cupping Sam's face in his palms. "They're," He swallows. "They just don't understand." _  
_And Sam, so rational, he takes that without question, shooting Gabriel and Castiel a glance before he draws Dean in, soft lips seeking reassurance as he feels tears stream down his brother's face.

_He lays her down without much trouble, taking the traded blanket from Sam and wrapping her in it quickly. He stands next to Sam when she's comfortable, his partnerloverequal in everything, and silence falls with the finality of something otherworldly. The stone angel above them looks on, guarding the grounds with the fierceness of life._

"She's not here." Castiel speaks for the first time. "It's the same as dying, to me."

"And you're just going to kill us?" Dean challenges them, a hand on Sam's shoulder as he turns back to the other men. "What happened to Just Desserts, huh? I thought you wanted fairness. Equality."

Gabriel shudders, and the gun in his hand shakes with him. "You deserve to die."

Sam pulls away from his grasp, standing on shaky legs before Dean can stop him. He stands, hands out in front of him as he opens his mouth to speak.

The gun goes off, and everything disappears in a film of red.

* * *

A/N Want the next chapter soon? Liked it? Leave me a review, and tell me what you thought!


	24. Chapter 24: Vanishing Point

A/N Many thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Here is the final installment for the prompt from EclipseWing. Have a cool request? Let me know in a review. I'm having a lot of fun with this, and want it to continue. (Will we see Castiel and Gabriel again?) :)

Thanks to my awesome beta as well, who keeps me sane even hours away.

* * *

Castiel shoves his brother at the last second, causing the bullet to fly wildly away from its intended target. Sam stumbles back as his shoulder explodes in a burst of red, pain spreading instantly as his outstretched arms fall lifeless to his sides.

Dean's up and moving before the shot processes in his brain, reaching up to catch Sam as his brother falls backwards into his hands. His mouth opens into a silent scream as he sees the blood, but it's not Sam's head, it's his shoulder, and that's all that matters-

"Castiel." Gabriel mutters, dark anger spreading across his face as the whole room seems to drop ten degrees. Castiel slowly backs up, coming to stand right in front of Dean as he struggles to cover his brother's wound. Sam groans beneath him, hands scrabbling alongside his to stem the bleeding.

Over his brother's frame, he can see the danger in the man before him-can see the betrayal, the goals, and the means about them plain in the man's face.

When dark eyes find Castiel instead of himself, he's so overrun with relief he nearly drops Sam. Older brother to older brother, it seems as if he's looking into a mirror. He can feel the same anger and protectiveness running through his veins that he sees in Gabriel's eyes, and it's troubling.

"Gabriel." Castiel straightens slightly, blue eyes wide as if he'd only just realized the ramifications of his betrayal. His fingers twist twist nervously in his sleeves, but he faces his brother with his full entirety, and that's something.

"I can...I can explain." The blue eyed man says, flustered as his brother pins him down with an impressive stare. He swallows, flicking a quick glance behind at Dean before looking back to Gabriel.

"Giver one reason why I shouldn't just shoot you as well." Gabriel says in a dangerous voice, gun steady at his hand.

"Because death is not something for you to mete out." Castiel says formally, taking a hesitant step forward. "And I won't let you continue this way anymore."

Gabriel glares at him, unimpressed. "So I'm not allowed to kill, but they are?" He sounds almost petulant as he pleads with his brother. "Tell me that isn't what you think, brother, because there is something evil in this room, and I intend to end it."

Castiel stays silent, eyes impassive as he watches his brother speak. Gabriel seems to notice, eyes confused as the blue-eyed man refuses to rise to the bait.

"They killed out mother, Castiel! Does that mean anything to you?" He challenges his brother, furious.

Castiel's head bows. "I never knew her." He murmurs, almost too softly to be heard.

Gabriel's eyebrows raise in disbelief, and betrayal crosses his features again as the words seem to hit him a second too late. "What?"

"I said, I never knew her!" Castiel nearly shouts, voice taking on an impressive register as he stands tall in front of his brother. "All this time, all the trips and endless roads, and it's for someone I never met! Your revenge means more to you than her memory, and I'm sick of it!"

Gabriel pales. "You wanted revenge as well." He points out softly, dazed.

Castiel lets out a sharp burst of laughter that skitters across Dean's nerves. "Yeah? Not anymore. We aren't killers, brother; we never were."

"Maybe you aren't, but I am." Gabriel takes a step forward, gesturing towards Sam's bloodied shoulder with his gun. "Don't tell me it doesn't feel good watching him bleed. Don't tell me that every ounce of blood they've stolen doesn't demand recompense. Recompense I'm willing to give!"

Castiel's face becomes shadowed, and he looks at Dean for a second before meeting Gabriel's eyes. Sam shifts in his arms, a small moan escaping his lips as Dean tries to keep him quiet.

"They're monsters. Don't think I don't know that." Castiel pauses, eyes flickering closed. "But we're not."

"No?" Gabriel asks sarcastically, voice climbing an octave as he moves even closer to his brother, tension enveloping the room. "You don't think I've killed before? You think I haven't killed to protect _you_?"

"Don't you think they haven't done the same for each other?" Castiel points out soberly, gesturing towards Dean and Sam. "Because they're brothers too, Gabriel. Brothers. Like you and me."

Gabriel shakes his head, dubious. "You know, sometime I really don't understand you, you know?"

The words seems to physically sting the blue-eyed man, who shudders before taking a step backwards, eyes closing in shame. He looks crestfallen as his brother's words hang between them, and Dean nearly winces in sympathy as Gabriel's glare doesn't relent.

"Our mother named you Gabriel for a reason." Castiel finally breaks the silence, eyes still shut. "She named you after an angel, brother. Gabriel, the Archangel of Heaven."

Gabriel seems confused by this non sequitur, frowning along with Dean as his brother speaks strange words calmly. "And?" He finally asks.

"I have been a child my whole life, and you took care of me. You were family when there was none, and for that I am eternally grateful. You protected and defended me. You were a great man. Like Gabriel, who defended the weak.

"But I am no longer that child." Castiel pauses, taking a deep breath as he steels himself, voice taking on a bitter tone. "And you are not that angel."

Gabriel's face goes white with fury, and Dean can see the second he decides to move his hand up, gun pointing at the center of Castiel's chest.

"Get out of the way."

Castiel juts his chin out, defiance like ice in his blue eyes. "No."

"Brother, don't make me do this." Gabriel grits out angrily, meeting Castiel's defiant glare with one of his own. But his eyes are the most vulnerable part of him now, and even Dean can see that.

"No one makes us do anything." Castiel says sadly, and Dean can see the beginnings of a plan form in his eyes as he looks back towards him. "Not even them."

Sam's more conscious as Dean glances down at him, wide eyed and bloody as his gaze fixes on the two brothers. His lips move soundlessly, a silent amendment to the argument before them.

"Get out of my way. Or I will kill you." Gabriel says, cold as ice.

"Could you do that?" Castiel asks, walking forward until he's forcing Gabriel to the side. Dean raises an eyebrow as the gun connects with his chest. There's a streak of defiance in his stance now, one he's seen in Sam more times than not as his little brother stood up to their father.

To himself.

"Because if it means so much to you, brother," Castiel says desperately, voice tight with emotion. "Then pull the trigger, and end this."

Over Gabriel's shoulder, he sees Castiel's gaze flick to his for the shortest of seconds. Gabriel doesn't catch the cunning glint in his brother's eyes, but Dean does, and the second those lips shape the word _run_, he's up and moving.

Castiel reacts in the same instant he does, tearing the gun from Gabriel's surprised grip and swinging it across his face. Dean doesn't have time to watch as he grabs Sam's good shoulder, practically dragging him to his still-numbed feet and to the doorway he'd seen them exit before.

Gabriel falls to the ground as Castiel's hit catches him on the temple, crumpling like a marionette with cut strings. He and Sam both stop and stare as Castiel breathes heavily over his brother's unconscious body, falling to his knees a second later.

They watch silently as he cradles Gabriel's head in his laps, eyes full of sorrow as Dean supports his brother, a hand curled protectively around Sam's waist. His brother looks at him with those knowing eyes, gesturing towards the other man without a word.

_This could be you _something whispers to him, and it's hard not to see the parallels between themselves and the other brothers, almost unsettlingly hard. He sees it in Sam's eyes as well (Sees his brother standing over him, a bloody smile across his face) and wonders for once which pair of brothers was dealt the luckier hand.

Dean approaches slowly, watching the blue-eyed man wipe away the blood on his brother's temple with a graceful, considering hand. He places a palm on the other man's shoulder, tentative in his silent apology for them both.

Castiel stiffens as his hand makes contact, and the moment is lost.

"Leave." He orders in a dark voice, not looking up. Dean removes his hand, but doesn't back away. Sam shifts behind him, uneasy.

The kneeling man looks down at his unconscious brother before twisting around to glare at him, pupils dilated in anger.

"I said LEAVE!" He screams.

Sam grabs his shoulder with a wince and pulls him to the door, and the last thing they see of Castiel is his bowed form, silent over the unconscious frame of his brother.

* * *

A/N Shortie, I know. Liked it? Hated it? Have a request? Don't forget to leave a review! :)


	25. Chapter 25: Blue Collar Man

A/N This chapter got away from me, much like my life. I don't know where I've been for the last eight days. Regardless, this is for owlgirl1998, who always rocks my world with her reviews and requested some FBI-ishness. Thank you to my beta as always for her (somewhat tired) input. :)

I have no idea how this got to 3k. Please enjoy anyway, and don't forget to leave me a review! It's been a while!:)

* * *

_He enters at night, months later, but only to surprise him. He has everything, the chains, the tarps, but it takes a second for him to process the apartment. No pictures, that part he'd expected, but a piano of all things sits at the center of the room. With a small smile, he closes the door and sets to work._

* * *

"I've got no eyes on his twenty. Move in! Move in!"

Will was in motion before the words really hit him, energy surging through his veins as he barreled past the doors and down the basement hallway. There were footsteps clacking harshly behind him, just a breadth away as they sprinted down the length of the whole building, guns a blazing.

"Where the hell is Winchester?" He shouted into his comm as they came up on yet another empty corner. There was too much to lose in this sting. "Dammit, I thought you said southeast corner!"

"He shot the dealer the second we got in." Ken said over the comm, sounding out of breath. "I don't know where he is, but he's still on the ground floor. Haul ass!"

Will took the next corner without sighting, swinging his gun around a second later to cover the hallway. There were too many places to hide in old buildings like this, too many nooks and crannies and hidden rooms.

"We've got movement up ahead." One of the other FBI agents behind him whispered, eyes darting back and forth as they approached the middle of the hallway. "Get ready."

Will gestured to the rest of the team with a short signal, directing them to stay back. He inched forward silently, both hands on his gun as he moved towards the shadows three doors ahead.

"Lassila says Winchester didn't take anything from Perez." Ken whispered in his ear. "Stay on guard, though. No gun doesn't mean no knives. We're setting up a perimeter as we speak."

Jonathan Perez was the mole of the operation, an arms seller from the Deep South with enough haul to impress even the FBI-enough to turn the slimy bastard, too. Winchester must've shot him, which Will couldn't find any reason to be upset about, Sam Winchester or not.

He edged up against the wall when the shadows flickered more furiously, holding his breath as something moved in the room to his right. Steadying, he counted to his team with one hand behind his back, heart rate skyrocketing as all movement stopped behind the door.

On one, he threw the it open and moved in low, sighting quickly as he overtook the room. The rest of the agents stood outside, guns raised and at the ready.

Will quickly searched the room, but the dancing shadows had disappeared. He didn't give the all-clear, growing more nervous by the second.

"Boss-" Adrianne was saying just as something _moved_ behind Will, latching into his arm and hip with an iron grip. Before he could fight his arm was twisted, maneuvered sideways until his gun aimed at the doorway.

The person clenched his hand around Will's trigger and released a hail of bullets into the agents, scattering them to the ground and the sides. Will screamed in anger as he saw Adrianne go down with a well-aimed bullet between her eyes.

He twisted up, trying to lash out at his captor, but a second later the pressure point in his wrist was being crushed, and a soft voice was at his ear.

"Move and I'll shoot you too." Sam Winchester whispered, using Will's hands to aim the gun at the now-empty doorway. A second later another agent leapt up, only to be shot down by Winchester's lightning-fast reflexes. He felt sick to his stomach as the agent let out a terrible groan before falling limply to the floor, shuddering in the other man's arms and praying his knees wouldn't collapse.

If anything could be said about Winchester, it was that he was merciful, of all things. Everyone went down with a quick shot, no suffering, which didn't fit with _any_ of their profiling. Everything about the Winchesters said they were sadists to the bone, but that didn't seem to be the case.

When the last body had settled, Will let out a shuddering breath. Before he could brace for the hit, his feet were knocked out from underneath him and he went down to the ground hard. He looked up to see his own gun between Winchester's hands, unwavering as the man looked down at him with sharp hazel eyes.

The kid couldn't be more than twenty-five, but something in his stance belied all ideas of youth Will had accumulated as he stared down a nose that'd been broken too many times. He felt another wave of nausea as Winchester didn't move, considering him above the barrel with something akin to intrigue in his dark eyes. He'd seen pictures, sure, everyone on the team had, but seeing his face in-person—

"Are you gonna shoot me?" Will managed a moment later, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and every second seemed to stretch as the other man watched him, expressionless.

"Depends." Winchester finally broke the silence. His voice was quiet, but Will could still hear the danger in-between the pleasant tones. He picked up something on the chair next to him, tossing it towards Will with barely a glance towards the bloodied floor he was kneeling in.

Will caught the object in surprise, frowning as soft wool filled his fingers. He looked up to see Winchester grabbing another coat out of the closet, draping it over his arm to cover the gun.

"Depends on what?" He grit out, rising to his feet in a slow motion. "My coat size?"

Winchester looked almost amused. "Why don't you cover up the FBI insignia and we'll talk, hmm?" He checked Will's gun methodically, then tossing it aside in lieu for a handgun he pulled from his waistband. Grabbing one of the other coats, he rifled through the pockets until he found a stretchy black hat, pulling it over his head until his hair was covered.

Will grabbed the coat and threw it on, keeping an eye on the gun the entire time. Winchester smiled when he finished, reaching a hand forward. Will resisted the urge to spit at the bastard, enraged.

"Shall we?" The other man was moving before he could process a change in position.

Will started to back up. "What the hell are you-" He stopped as Winchester reached out, pressing the gun to his side and clicking the safety off with an audible shift of metal on metal. "Jesus Christ."

"Listen very carefully, alright?" Sam-that was his first name-said in his ear. "We're going to take a walk, and it's gonna be loads of fun. Try to move and I'll shoot you where you stand, got me?"

Will swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. "You're not gonna get out of here alive." He said, eyes wide in fear as a small smile spread across the taller man's face.

"Hmm? Why's that?" Winchester almost looked distracted, scanning the far wall of the office, eyes lingering on the rusty frame around the window.

"Freaking law enforcement, thats 's FBI agents surrounding the building and you just shot six of them. You really think—" He paused, alarmed as Winchester raised the gun from his side. Before he could react, the other man darted out the door and into the office three doors down. A second later, three gunshots sounded.

Will scrambled for the window he saw Winchester eyeing before, digging nails into the rusty frame. With a groan it moved upwards in his hands, revealing the abandoned alley outside. He maneuvered himself up, reaching for—

A hand clamped down on his wrist, but instead of pulling him down Sam pushed him upwards, swinging up onto the window next to him.

"Just a little misdirection." Sam nodded towards the office across the hall before grabbing Will's waist. He pushed him into the alley, dragging them along the second their feet hit ground.

The two of them turned the corner into the street without faltering, Sam's hand tight on Will's waist as he pulled him flush against his side.

"Move when I don't say so and I shoot you." Winchester reminded him pleasantly before they walked forward into the clamor of the downtown.

He understood what the coat was for now, at least. The handgun Winchester had used to distract the other agents was now cleverly concealed beneath the black coat, pressed once again to Will's side as they started down the sidewalk.

Sam paid no attention to the flashing lights around them as they made their way down the street, weaving them in with the sparse crowds until they almost made it to the edge of the perimeter. Will felt his confusion increase as he spotted one of the squad cars from before next to one of the larger apartments. Winchester must have seen it to, because the pressure increased at his side.

"No tricks. No calling out. Move—"

Will interrupted. "And you shoot me. I got it." But he planned anyway, eyes seeking out the deputy he could see sitting on the hood listening to his radio. "I don't understand why you need me, though."

Winchester's pace slowed almost imperceptibly, a small smirk forming on his lips. "You ever seen the Bourne movies?"

"Bourne? As in, Jason Bourne?" Will asked, frowning at the juxtaposition. "Not really seeing what that has to do with the current situation."

Sam raised an eyebrow, gesturing minutely with his free hand at the perimeter he could see the cops erecting around the blocks. "You remember that scene in the first movie when he meets the really hot doctor and takes her hostage?" Will nods.

"You're the doctor. You're my free ticket out of here, except I don't have a heart of gold like Jason did. I have no qualms about shooting you or anyone else here."

Will grits his teeth as the perimeter nears. "And you're basing your escape plan off of a movie? Call me crazy, but that doesn't sound just right."

"Don't knock my plans." Sam gives him a playful smile, but it's tinged with malice, like sharp edges of glass reflect from his eyes. "Grab my shoulders with your free hand and slump a little bit. Don't show your face."

Will shakes his head. "No. I'm not doing this."

Sam raises an eyebrow again. "Okay, let me ask again. Grab my shoulders or I'll shoot the next person we pass."

Goddamnit. He slung a hand over Winchester's shoulders and slumped, feeling the press of the gun even more acutely as Sam readjusted the coat over the barrel. They passed by the cop who was just setting up tape at the end of the block.

"Hey, what the hell are you doing back there?" The cop yelled angrily, stalking forwards. Will wanted to shout out, warn the man, but all he did was tense slightly as Sam's grip on him intensified minutely.

"Oh, it's just…" Winchester dropped his voice into an obnoxious country accent, waving his free hand around wildly with a goofy grin on his face. "Me n'my boyfriend here, we had a lil' too much to drink." He broke off into a fit of giggles, making the cop flinch. "Imma just take him back to the hotel now, if y'all don't mind."

"Yeah, yeah." The cop said, waving them through. Will cursed as they passed the man. They were looking for Sam Winchester, tall, longhaired and alone. Not some man in a beanie and his drunk boyfriend. Damn it.

* * *

_The chains go over the rafters just like he'd planned, and with a short tug he pulls them taught. There's something almost humorous about what he's doing, righteous where he'd always been spiteful, but it feels good for a change. He locks the limp arms into the chains and begins hoisting the body up, knowing it'll only be this once._

* * *

As soon as they turned the next corner, Will lashed out, driving his free hand into Winchester's kidney and shoving the gun with his shoulder. Winchester caught his hand before he'd made it a few inches, twisting him viciously and shoving him against the brick wall.

It was silent as Will breathed out, feeling the press of the gun at the base of his skull. This was it. He was going to die. Here, in a dark alley, with Sam Winchester of all people. He closed his eyes and prayed it would be quick, if nothing else.

Instead of the click of the trigger, he heard low laughter. Craning his head slightly, he spotted Winchester, head bent forward in amusement.

"You got a name, kid?" He asked, spinning him back to their earlier position in the blink of an eye. Will swallowed, because it shouldn't have been as easy as it was.

"Will." He said in a low voice. Winchester raised an eyebrow at the missing last name, but didn't comment on it.

"You wanna go for a walk, Will?" He asked pleasantly, as if he had a choice. He nodded anyways, feeling the press of the gun at his side and the end it promised him.

They walked down the street until they were a few blocks past the perimeter, but it didn't seem to satisfy Sam. He kept a tight hand on his waist, guiding them down streets even Will didn't know existed.

"So Will, you got a girlfriend? Wife?" Winchester asked conversationally as the streets got even darker. "Or am I off? You played the gay part alright. I bet you've got a boyfriend, don't you?"

Will gritted his teeth, willing himself (haha, get it?) to say nothing. Winchester actually looked disappointed, as if he'd truly wanted to know.

"Nothing?" Sam clicked his tongue. "Well, that's the FBI life. I met another agent like you once. Wanna know what happened to him?"

"When are you gonna let me go?"

Winchester turned slightly, polite expression still in place. "Sorry?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I said, when are you gonna let me go?"

The other man shrugged. "When I feel like it."

"Which is?"

Winchester smirked. "When you tell me about that boyfriend of yours."

Will gaped, nearly stopping the both of them as they stumbled on the pavement. "What kind of kidnapper _are_ you? I tell you about my boyfriend and you'll let me go?"

"Aha! So you do have one!" Sam sounded victorious. He pushed Will gently forwards, gun still an insistent presence at his side. "And yes, pretty much. After I find a car, too."

Will gritted his teeth-which he needed to stop doing-and sighed. "Fine. I have a boyfriend. Or, had."

"Had? This sounds good." Winchester looked amused.

"Had. End of story. Now let me go." He shoved experimentally at the gun at his side, but Winchester didn't move.

"Nuh uh. Not that quick. I want details."

Will sighed, caught between anger and desperation. "You do this to all the people you kidnap?"

"Yes, I like to know a bit about them." Winchester said honestly, nodding. "It's a lonely road I walk."

"You mean the one where you murder and rape everyone with your brother?" Will bit his tongue the second the words came out. Damn it. There were things you just didn't _say_ to murderers, goddamnit. At least he didn't say the name.

"I'd phrase it a little differently." Winchester didn't pause, features going expressionless at the mention of the brother. Will paled as the strange enthusiasm from before flickered in his eyes, dying down for a second before blazing up again. "So. This boyfriend. What's his name?"

What was one piece of information, anyway? "Brian." Even saying it hurt.

"How'd y'all break up?" Winchester asked, accent slipping just the slightest. He was from Kansas, Will remembered hazily. Lawrence, Kansas.

"I broke things off." Will said, shivering as yet another gust of wind caught him in the face. "Things were getting...strange."

"So he did something." Sam surmised, eyes showing genuine interest as they flickered in the orange lights.

"He was overly attached."

Winchester shook his head. "Stalking?"

"How did you-"

"Lucky guess." The lights from above caught Winchester's profile as he turned, jaw outlined in hazy florescence. "But you're Mr. FBI man. You didn't get a restraining order?"

Will narrowed his eyes again, defensive. He looked Winchester square in the face. "I didn't think it was a problem."

"Did he hit you?"

Will snorted at the clichéd line. "I woulda hit him back. Trust me."

"I would've too." Winchester said, smiling off at something Will couldn't see. He turned back, eyes appraising. "He makes you angry."

"Damn straight." He's past the trivial defenses from before, and why should he defend him? "He almost shot me when I kicked him out."

"He did?" Winchester looked almost outraged, which was a scary expression on him.

Will shrugged, uncomfortable. "He was an asshole."

They lapsed into a long silence, broken only by the scrape of shoes on concrete.

When Will looked up next, they'd made it to a dim-lit, ramshackle parking lot in the middle of the ghetto. He was past the point of freezing, desperately resisting the urge to curl into the warm body next to his. Winchester didn't seem to notice, leading them forwards with steady hands.

Will realized at the same time the entered the parking lot that their trip had ended. The gun lifted from his side, moving to point at his head instead. He drew in a sharp breath, alarmed.

"You've been a great crowd." Winchester joked, shrugging. His hat had disappeared, another disguise thrown to the wind. Will felt a rolling wave of nausea overtake him as he saw the intent in his eyes. How could he ever have been stupid enough to believe he'd let him go?

He threw his hands up just as Winchester raised the gun even further, frantic.

"I thought you said-"

Sam Winchester cracked the gun across his head, and with a sharp pain at his temple, Will crumpled to the ground and knew no more.

* * *

_He waits until he gets home, hidden behind one of the doors for more than half an hour. He crouches as the door opens, spreading light across the hardwood. It inches forward, until just the dangling edges of the body show._

_"-talk to you later." He hears him say into the phone, distracted. He doesn't see the body, stretched out from above and still dripping blood. He doesn't notice it for a few seconds, how the blood falls onto the tarp he'd placed on the floor with a small splash._

_"What the-" He slides even further into the shadows as footsteps walk right past him. The light near the body flickers on instantly. "Jesus Christ! Holy shit!" The man stumbles back, almost falling to the ground in terror, backing away in vain from the forever-seeing eyes of the body. "Brian!"_

_Sam Winchester stays just long enough to smile, slipping out of the apartment and into the shadows as the road calls yet again._

* * *

A/N What did you think? Have another request? Leave me a review below, and tell me what you thought! :)


	26. Chapter 26: What Cain Was To Abel

A/N Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! This next chapter is one of two, a forward in a way to Bobby's story. Thanks again to my beta, who sticks with me through it all, and to everyone who still reads. You make crappy days bearable. Please enjoy, and don't forget to tell me what you thought! :)

* * *

He takes Sam to the park that first night, heat be damned. The kid's only eight, but he's got enough energy to power the both of them, and getting out of the motel room is one of Dean's only priorities at this point.

Sammy doesn't say anything about Dad, but they both know he's leaving for a while this time. Dean saw it in his eyes when he left, knew Sam did too-the intense glances towards things that didn't exist, the absence of any authority. He'll be gone for weeks, but Dean doesn't care where. His only responsibility is Sammy (Watch your brother, boy!) and taking care of him has _always_ fallen to Dean, absent father or not.

Sam plays like any other kid, curly brown hair framing rosy cheeks and inquisitive eyes. He's older than he looks, casting curious glances towards the other kids like he's confused on how to play, how to be a _kid_.

Dean's about to walk up when a little girl skitters by, throwing something at Sam before jogging away. His brother stares bemusedly at her before picking up the Frisbee and grinning, so wide and bright it takes Dean's breath away.

He tries to clamp down on the jealousy that rises in his gut, because it's been ages since Sammy's smiled like that, but it's okay. He grins to himself as the kid chases blondie around the park and settles into the bench with a glance at the other parents.

His heart stops as his eyes land on who must be the blonde kid's mother, matching hair shining golden in the heat of the sun. She turns, laughing at something her husband says, and Dean can almost imagine his Mom doing the same thing, pretends for a second it's Sam she's laughing about and not some random blonde tyke. It curls up painful in his throat but he pushes it down, forcing his eyes back to where Sam's playing before tears can threaten.

Evening comes before he notices, with Dean leaning back into the summer haze and letting his mind drift. The blonde girl leaves after a few hours, but Sam found some boys to play with, so he's not bored. Dean is. His throat feels like sandpaper, and every breath whistles across his tongue like fire.

He's been sitting for hours and hasn't noticed until now that it's almost dinner time, and John didn't leave money. Dad, he corrects himself amid the shock. But sometimes it's easier to distance himself from the man he becomes, as if calling him John made him any less their father.

Besides. Fathers would leave money.

He realizes at the same moment that Sam was yawning and glanced at his watch. Standing (and popping too many joints to be healthy) he walks over to where Sam's sitting, entrenched in sand castles and moats.

"Sammy."

His brother looks up, a goofy grin on his face as the hand he was digging with stalls.

"Who's that?" One of the boys asks, raising an eyebrow dismissively."He your daddy?"

Sammy smiles. "That's my brother." He says matter of factly, and Dean has to stifle a laugh at the expression on the other boys faces, because there was no forgetting who was in charge. Dean holds out a hand, frowning as a grinning Sam plops his sand-covered palm in his and boosts himself up. "Seeya, guys."

Dean waits until they're out of sight before taking his hand out of Sammy's, wiping it off on his jeans with a disgusted snort. "Gross, man."

Sam just sighs happily, at the stage where most kids conk out, face lightly sunburned and eyes sleepy. They still have a few blocks to walk back to the motel, though, so Dean kneels.

Sam almost runs into him, eyes at half mast. "Dean?" He asks sleepily, putting a hand out to steady himself. "Why're y'kneeling?"

"Piggy back ride." Dean offers with a smile, holding his hands out. "One time deal, you know the rules."

Sam claps happily, climbing into his back sandy hands and all. Dean's still amazed at how tiny he is, even at eight. He was taller than Sam when he was ten, and as far as he knows, is still growing.

He walks them back to the motel, but even the too-adorable snores he can hear from Sam aren't enough to keep him from worrying. Dad had always left money. Always. The whole idea of leaving was that they were separate entities for a period, Dad somewhere else and them wherever he left them. Money was his promise, his roundabout way of always coming back. If there was money, John was coming back to be Dad again.

And he tries, tries with all his might to silence that thought, as he stumbles through the motel door right as night fell. Sam was a dead weight on his back, snoring every few seconds with the exhaustion only a well worn-out kid could possess. Dean lays him carefully on the bed, spreading a cool cloth across his sun-burnt face. He'll wake up soon, though, so Dean has to move fast. Pulling the privacy shades down, he grabs the key and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Even though the sun's gone down it's still at least ninety out, humidity changing the air to the consistency of water. Beads of sweat appear on his skin almost instantaneously, slipping down to rest at the small of his back where his gun rests. He doesn't know why he takes it, but something tells him to, some fierce instinct he knows a twelve year old shouldn't have.

And he's panicking. He's got minutes, maybe hours, to find them something to live off of. There's no thought of a job, because he's young, even with the higher then average height, and who's gonna hire a kid for two weeks?

He walks six blocks north in a complete frenzy, breaths coming in gasps as he runs the numbers. Two kids for at least more than one week means money, at least a hundred dollars, maybe seventy five. But he can't find that kind of money anywhere. Not in two hours.

He spots him just as he turns down the corner, heart freezing as an idea forces its way into his mind. The man across the street's wearing fancy clothes, PDA in hand as he makes his way down the sidewalk. There's absolutely no one else out, no one nearby, but he can't. He wants to cry out, respond to the voice shouting in his head, (it wasn't my idea!) but it was. The gun at his back weighs a hundred times more than it did before, but he's never fired it at a person, doesn't even think he can.

His feet move unbidden and suddenly he's crossing the street, gun pulled from his waistband. The idiot doesn't even see him until Dean's right below his nose, gun pointed firmly between his eyes.

"Get outta my-holy shit!" The man backs up, eyes going wide in alarm. Dean hates it, but his eyes to straight to the man's pockets, and he's not disappointed. There's a wallet bulge in the front right pocket, probably full of twenties the man'll throw at strippers later or drink away, and that's how he justifies it, amid a haze of need and desperation.

"I want your wallet." Dean says coolly, locking his eyes with the man's as he holds a hand out. The taller man blinks at the gun in disbelief.

"Where the hell'd you get a gun, kid?"

Dean repeats himself. "Wallet. Now."

"Look, just-" the man takes a cautious step to the side. "Let's just work this out, okay? What do you want, a twenty?"

Dean grits his teeth, wishing for once he could channel John's authority into his voice. "I said I wanted your wallet." He doesn't have time, and maybe he's overreacting but he can't seem to stop, to quell the red anger that spreads across his vision as no wallet appears.

The man snorts, which is the biggest insult of all, but his eyes still stick to the gun. "Listen-"

Dean's patience runs out, and before he can stop himself his hands swing the gun out, connecting with the man's temple in a crush of blood. The man crumples to the sidewalk, smacking his head again before going limp. He gasps, but his hands are already moving, reaching past the surprise and the blood and going straight for the money.

Dean rifles through his pocket before the unconscious man's even done moving, grabbing the wallet and ripping all the cash he can see from it. He stuffs the money under his shirt, heart beating frantically every second the man's in sight. After a second he grabs the man by the shoulders and yanks him into a nearby bush, groaning at the weight of it all as hands that aren't his hide the man from sight.

He lets out a stuttered sob as his fingers come back red, stained with the man's blood. He doesn't check to see if the man's breathing, stumbling backwards until he's on the sidewalk again and sprinting away as fast as he can.

It's only a few minutes later, and he makes it back to the motel just before Sam wakes up, closing the door and wiping away the blood that sticks to the handle. He just gets the cash under his pillow (and it's enough, enough for weeks) as Sam's eyes flutter open, and a smile spreads across his face.

"Hey Dean."

Dean swallows, forcing himself to smile back. "Heya, Sammy."

His brother stretches before sitting up. Dean'd eyes widen and he hides his hands under the covers before Sam can see the blood. And something inside of him is scared that'll Sam'll know, that he'll look at them with those eyes that see too much, the eyes that know where Dad goes (and don't say a word)

"Hey Dean?" Sam asks, and it takes forever for Dean to respond, heart still pumping adrenaline to every part of his body.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Can we have dinner soon? I'm getting hungry." His brother smiles up at him, crooked teeth flashing as an idea seems to appear. "I thought we could go look at the diner with the aquarium. Could we, Dean? Please?"

Dean grins despite the blood, only forces it a little bit, really. "Sure." He says, and his brother's already leaping in the air when he says the next part, mind moving towards shinier things and happier thoughts.

"Anything you want, Sammy."

* * *

A/N What did you think? Liked it? Want the next chapter? Leave a review and let me know! :)


	27. Chapter 27: Blaze Of Glory

A/N For my beta, who liked the last chapter, and to LeeMarieJack and JensenAcklesFanForever for being awesome, awesome people. I know Bobby Singer's character was mentioned before, and that how he was portrayed wasn't satisfactory.

I know everyone loves Bobby. I love Bobby. But in a dark AU like this, it's not as realistic. I know it's not great, and I don't always like it either, but I wanted to get this chapter out regardless of response. Thank you so much for your support and I hope you find the time to let me know what you thought, negative or not. Thank you again to my beta, for being the amazing person that they are.

* * *

_He does it for Sam this time, makes sure his brother sees the body and the blood before it settles and the life leaves the nameless woman's eyes. He would hold him even closer if he could, pull Sam until all he could see was what he wanted in front of him._

_"Dean." His brother whispers, shocked, but he can see the amazement in his eyes at the body. It's his first since before Jessica, and Dean can read the need in his eyes down to the barest emotions. It was what Sam needed, and it was what Dean was prepared to give._

_He's surprised when Sam turns away, hazel eyes flashing with something akin to regret. He reaches out, catching his brother's shoulder before he can walk away._

_"Sam." He replies finally, gripping tight. It's the first time he's seen light in his brother's eyes in months, the first time he's really seen past the dark circles and pain._

_"No." Sam says softly, before he can even ask, but his hands shake minutely at his side. "Dean, I...I can't."_

_"You need this." Dean says, gesturing towards the body. He wipes a hand in the blood, not missing the dilation of his brother's eyes as he does it. Sam's as hooked as he was before Stanford, because his eyes never leave Dean's hand._

_"This is wrong. It's...not who I am anymore."_

_He tries to maneuver out of his grip, but Dean grabs his second shoulder before he can move, grasping his brother's face and moving him to the closest they'd been since before...everything._

_"Dean." Sam breathes down, lips brushing his slightly. The blood on his hand smears his brother's cheekbones, and Dean smiles to himself as Sam's eyes widen even further at the realization. He runs a hand down his brother's taller chest, dragging a gasp from Sam as his fingers move even further down._

_"Take what you got, Sammy." He says, running a soft hand through his brother's longer hair, offering everything without a thought. "I'm here."_

_The body lies between them like a promise, ratified as Sam closes his eyes with a smile, dragging Dean's mouth down to his in a vicious, never-ending kiss._

_Everything he'd ever done was for his brother, and that would never change._

* * *

They're out driving late because there's nothing left to do, because middle of nowhere South Dakota is dull and dry and all Dean wants to do is put a smile on his brother's face again, at any cost.

And cost is relative these days, really.

So he finds himself rolling the windows down even though it's fall and the air is crisp and the skies bluer than ever. The night air whistles through the car, whipping Sam's hair around his face and everything else in the Impala. They're the only people on the road, but it feels like a celebration of sorts, just the two of them, against everything. But Dean's learned after a while that most problems never lie directly in front of you, and it rings true.

Sam's in the middle of his second beer when they smell it, and even the alcohol isn't enough to quell his brother's curiosity. There's smoke in the air, yeah, but it's got a different scent to it, one Winchesters are oh-so familiar with.

"You smell that?" Sam asks, but his head's out the window before he gets half the sentence out, searching for the fire eagerly. Dean slows to the side of the road, searching for the plume of smoke against the night sky.

"Smells like a fire." Dean notes, nodding. His brother snorts.

"Smells like flesh." He says. Dean nods again, all low-key, but Sam's enthusiasm is infectious, and he can feel it buzzing under his skin. "We should go...check it out."

He smiles at Dean, and it's small, downplayed, but he know better. "Sure. We could do that." He says, smiling back, and suddenly everything reaches a crescendo.

Sam's out of the car first, a burst of laughter leaving his lips as they find the shotguns. Dean shakes his head as his brother tosses him the sawed-off, jogging to catch up with Sam as he darts into the forest.

"I'm thinking north east." Sam says, and Dean just nods along, following his brother's instincts because he taught him them. They both know fire. Fire's the friend who never stays long enough for them, elusive and addictive when it shouldn't be, it really shouldn't.

They walk carefully over roots and old branches, forcing their way through the pines and age-old maples above them. He follows Sam wordlessly, catching the reflection of his eyes or a flash of his smile in the moonlight, their only light so far.

Sam takes them half a mile to the right, then north, long limbs pushing through the minutes restlessly. Dean hears his breath catch as they sight fire ahead, just a small flame from where they are.

"Fire." Sam whispers contemplatively, as if he'd never seen flames before. And Dean doesn't challenge him, because they've done a lot for little in life, but he doesn't think this'll be one of those times.

When they get close enough Sam crouches, Dean right behind him. There's a man up ahead, but he can't make out much in the light. He moved around Sam a little, trying to see better.

His eyes widen as he sees the man, bowed and grey-haired, drag something to the bonfire with shaky hands. He can just make out the body from where they're hidden, a woman's very dead corpse that the man holds closer even as it burns, letting it fall into the coals only halfway. A sob breaks out, muffled by the crackle of the flames, but still audible.

Sam moves instantly, fluid and eager as he walks towards the man. Dean follows, curious and on-guard as his brother's delighted smile flashes in the light of the fire.

"That looks illegal." The man flinches at the words, spinning to face Sam as he appraises the fire. His hand moves clumsily to his belt, and he yanks a large hunting knife out of his belt with a snarl.

"Who the hell are you?"

Dean holds his hands out, somewhat unconvincingly hiding his shotgun. "A concerned third party."

The man snorts, and this close Dean can see the redness of his eyes, can imagine the alcohol he'd had the last few hours. "Don't need no fucking help."

Sam smiles at the man, dimples reflecting the fire. "Call it a personal favor, with your best intentions in mind." He eyes the body with a raised eyebrow.

Dean nearly laughs, closing his mouth at the last second to smother the sound. His brother's right. The body's half charred on the fire, smoking skin frisking to black as he coals slowly burn the skin off. The other half remains intact, almost creepily pale in the moonlight. He and Sam stamp out the pitiful excuse for a fire that remains with their boots, while the other man stares on, skeptical only in a way drunks can be.

"You ever hid a body before, son?" The man asks sarcastically when they're done, and Dean smirks at the bitter humor he can hear in the drunk man's voice, mixing with just the smallest note of desperation. Just the smallest.

"We've had some experience." Dean says. Sam locks eyes with him (Can we Dean, huh, can we?) and gives him a look that's always brought him to his knees, literally. "We'd be willing to...help out." He says after a second, looking back to Sam (There, fine?) as the man blinks, confused.

"Ain't no one gonna hide a body for free."

Sam raises both eyebrows, undeterred. "Did we say free?"

"W-what do 'ya want then?" The man asks, wavering a little in place as Sam moves forwards, a wide grin on his face.

"A story. And maybe a favor, sometime in the future."

The man's already grasping at straws, and the honesty he must see in Sam's eyes tips him over. He nods, hunching over as if he can't look at them. Dean shakes his head ruefully at the expression on Sam's face, catching his eyes once before gesturing to the trees behind them.

"I'll get the shovels."

* * *

They end up digging a deeper hole than normal, because shallow graves are easy to find and practically child's play for them anyway. It takes them an hour, though, enough for Sam to wheedle a story out of the significantly more sober man as they dug. Apparently Sam made coffee while he was gone, the polite bastard.

"Her name's Karen. She's my wife. I married her a decade ago, and don' got no kids. I run an auto repair yard around back, but ain't no one come out here often, usually only for the classic cars."

Dean didn't comment, too focused on the feeling of the shovel in his hands as it broke earth. Sam was down a few shirts next to him, and Dean secretly appreciated the view as the two of them talked.

"What's your name?" Sam asked in between shovelfuls, still smiling.

"Bobby. Bobby Singer."

"So, Bobby Singer. Why are you hiding a body in the middle of nowhere?"

Bobby blanched at the flippant tone. "Accidents." He said gruffly, as if the thought had just returned to him. "And cause life ain't never fair."

"What happened?" Sam dropped his eyes respectfully, moving a little closer to Dean as the hole widened.

"She...fell. Yeah. She fell. That's all I remember. I got home and found her covered in blood, not breathin' or nothin'."

His brother's expression turned dubious, but he was turned away from the man. Dean raised an eyebrow, gaze catching on the dead woman's shirts. Dark stains covered her chest, like she'd been stabbed.

"Why didn't you call 911?"

The man shrugs again, eyes going blank for a second."There...there was no time."

Sam asks this time. "You said she fell."

Dean smiles as he catches onto what his brother intended. The drunk man nods. "Yeah. Must've cracked her head, or somethin'."

"But she was stabbed afterwards?"

Bobby freezes. "Sorry?"

"What was it, did she fall, or did you stab her? Simple question."

Singer shakes his head, eyes glazing over again. "I don't remember. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened."

Dean shovels another section and moves on, keeping an eye on Sam as his brother straightens. "So you don't know what happened at all."

"I must have blacked out." Singer said. "I woke up and she was..." He swallowed, unable to get the words out. "Like she is now."

He turns away, and Dean feels a momentary pang of sympathy for the crushing guilt he sees in the man's eyes before he digs another shovelful.

* * *

The grave's done a few minutes later, almost too deep for either to boost out of. Sam gathers more firewood while Dean wraps the body in a tarp he'd grabbed from the trunk of the Impala, ignoring the crackle of the burnt flesh under his hands. Bobby looked on unseeingly after his story, eyes blank as they move around him.

Sam boosts the tarp-covered body in his arms and held it out to Dean, who stepped back with a pointed look towards Singer. Sam shrugs, holding the woman's weight out to the other man. Bobby stares at his wife's body wordlessly, still as catatonic as before.

His brother lays the body on the ground next to the grave, but there's no decent way for them to drop it in from six feet up. He ends up rolling it in, and a dull thump sounds a second later. It shocks Singer from his reverie, and his eyes dart from side to side as Dean and Sam grab the gasoline.

"You got the branches?" Dean asks Sam, who nods from where he's pouring the gas into the hole. Dean grabs what he can and starts piling the brush in, casting an almost-concerned look towards Bobby. The other man still hasn't moved, which only concerns Dean in regards to Sam. They hadn't taken the hunting knife away from the drunken man yet, and if Dean looks closely, he can see blood on the blade.

Sam joins him a minute later and they pile as much wood as they can on the body, methodical as Bobby watches on. When it's time to light the match, Sam finally releases the laughter he was holding in, a quick bubble of notes sounding as the fire blossomed in the bottom of the hole.

"I wanted a catholic burial for her." Bobby mumbles absently from behind them as the fire burns, high and sweet in the air centering around the hole. Dean shrugs, grabbing one of the shovels and handing it to Sam.

He grabs his own after a second of contemplation. "Yeah, well we don't always get what we want."

Sam's hands tighten on the shovel, but he says nothing, watching the fire burn with his brother as Bobby looks away.

* * *

A/N Let me know what you think! Thank you for taking the time to review! :)


	28. Chapter 28: Harmonics

A/N For EclipseWing, who wanted to see what Dean did in his time off. This ended up being more of an explanation for the whole series, and I can't wait to write the scene described below. Thanks as always to my beta, and to everyone who reviewed, because you guys rock more than you think. *raises glass* To more chapters!

* * *

Sam takes a while this time around, and maybe that's a blessing in disguise instead of the pained wait it feels like for Dean, because everything's been just a little too frantic lately, a little too fast to hold on completely for once. Sam was in Colorado the last time he checked, but everything before that is a blur.

He wouldn't have realized he was running too hard until he'd fallen, so maybe waiting's a good thing.

This time it's somewhere in Indiana, a detour of a detour that's just the quiet he needs with a city large enough to remain anonymous. He ditches the leather jacket just in case, because it's not quite fifty and even in a city like this he'd rather stay under the radar.

The faith he has in Sam makes him hesitate before he touches the amulet around the neck, hiding the necklace under the long-sleeved shirt he's wearing. White, because he's tired of black for once.

The park's empty when he gets there, but a bell rings off in the distance a minute later and soon it's swarming with kids. Dean ducks his head and grabs one of the benches near the playground, hoping he'll be overlooked as weary parents sit down around him.

The sun shines down through the branches as the children race around, delighted peals of laughter ringing out as girls chase boys and vice versa. He's baffled for a second at the energy they seem to have, and it's a cruel reminder of life in the prettiest packaging possible.

And he feels angrier than ever for a moment, and every scream pierces through brittle bone like a shock, until he can barely feel anything but despair and anger, bitter to no end for the smallest of seconds. It's too _happy_, he thinks incredulously.

He's not even sure why he came here anyway, why he keeps coming. They never had this, he thinks. They never had-

"Don't like kids?"

He flinches towards the voice, shifting back instinctively as a woman sits down on the other side of the bench. He blinks a few times before clearing his throat.

"No. I love kids." He says unconvincingly, but it's more of a mumble than a defense. The woman raises an eyebrow at him but smiles anyway, holding out a hand.

"Lisa."

He shakes it, finally noticing the woman's face. Pretty brown eyes and dark hair, with full lips. "Dean."

"So Dean," She smiles up at him again, white teeth flashing in the afternoon sun. "Which one's yours?"

"He's...uh. In the bathroom." He gestures over to a building he hopes is the school. Lisa nods, so he tries to direct the attention away from himself. "How about you?"

"The eighties hairband roadie in training over there." She says with a laugh, like it's a secret joke, pointing to a brown-haired kid playing in the sandbox. Dean raises an eyebrow, surprised. The kid's got a Def Leppard shirt of all things on, staring intensely at a pebble in his hand.

"Kid that young likes rock?" He asks with an honest quirk to his lips, bemused. Lisa holds out a finger with a laugh, leaning towards the kid and calling out.

"Hey Ben, honey, who's the greatest band ever?"

The kid stands up, fingers automatically forming the "rock on" symbol. He couldn't have been more than six, but he yells back with all of his might. "AC/DC _rules_!"

Dean lets out a surprised chuckle, clapping his hands together slowly at the kid's excitement. "That's great. That's-that's awesome. Who's his dad?"

Lisa's smile disappears for a brief second, long enough for Dean to catch the flash of anxiety in her eyes.

"I shouldn't have asked." He says before she responds. "That was rude. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." She says awkwardly, but a small smile lights up her face, and this time it's a little more genuine. "I don't know who Ben's dad is. Bit of a scandal around here."

She shrugs, glancing at the suburban moms with strollers that surround them. "But it doesn't matter so much. At least not to me."

"I think it's great, you're raising him on your own." Dean interjects truthfully. "It must be hard."

She smiles again, leaning back into the bench they're sharing. "What about you? No family drama in your life?"

Dean snorts bitterly at that, but Lisa looks honestly confused and he feels a fissure of shame to through him. "I...I have a brother."

"Yeah? What does he do?"

Dean freezes. "Uh, a little freelance work here and there. Same as me."

Lisa nods along, seemingly interested. "You guys get along well?"

"Not right now." He admits before he can stop himself, and what's one vague answer out of many? "We're kinda fighting right now."

"What happened?" Lisa asks, eyes moving to land on Ben before she turns back to face him. He ducks his head, feeling the edges of guilt creeping up on him and wishing they wouldn't.

"I did something. I messed up, pretty badly. I didn't mean to, but I...I hurt him." He shrugs awkwardly, trying to downplay it. "I didn't think I would, though."

Lisa considers him. "Did you have a fight?"

Dean shakes his head instantly, but it's a lie. He can still feel the bruises, but nothing's worse than the guilt. "Not a fistfight, if that's what you mean. But he found out what I did, and now we're not really talking."

The sun chooses to hide behind a cloud that moment, throwing shadows across the playground and field. The children carry on unperturbed, chattering happily as they wait for its eventual return.

"I've never been apart from him in my life." Dean admits after a second, eyes downcast. Anger roils in his belly, directed at himself. "We grew up together, on the road. And I haven't seen him in almost a year."

Lisa looks at him for a second, brown eyes filled with sympathy he really doesn't care for all of a sudden, and why is he, Dean Winchester, spilling his mistakes to some random woman anyway? He grits his teeth, because it's not her fault, it's his, but the anger's indsicriminate and all he sees is red-

"Do you know what you did wrong?"

"Yes, goddamnit, I do!" He shouts, climbing to his feet in one too-fluid movement. "Goddamnit, I know what I did wrong, but I thought I was doing the right thing! And it's my fault he's gone!"

He breathes heavily and doesn't even notice the fear in Lisa's eyes until he calms down enough to turn around. He feels another wave of shame pass through him as she stares at him, frozen by his outburst.

"I'm sorry." He breathes after a second. "I didn't mean to shout at you. That was inappropriate."

He turns to leave, surprised when a hand lands on his shoulder. He can see the parallels for a second and it kills him, tastes like ash on his tongue, because Sam left just like this and a hand couldn't pull him back either.

"Dean."

He grits his teeth, turning around to face the stranger she really was. "Look, I'm sorry for-"

Lisa cuts him off. "No. Sit down. You obviously need to talk about this." She gestures at the bench, a fierce mothering look in her eyes. Dean sits, shame mixing with resignation as he falls back into his earlier stance.

"You love your brother, that much I can see." She starts, like she has some clue. "And that's the only reason you did what you did. I don't wanna know." She says, holding up her hands. "That's for you and him only. But family's all I got, Dean."

She says it almost roughly, hands going to her hips. "And if I would die before I ever hurt Ben. And I think that's what you would do, too."

"That doesn't make it right."

Lisa shrugs. "I can't say that for you."

Dean stares at her before looking back at the kids, resigned. "I did this, and I have to fix it."

She's silent for a while, both of them staring at the playground absently, and when she speaks, it's more insightful than he would've given her credit for.

"Then why don't you?"

The words cut more than they should, summing up the question he'd been asking himself since _then, _but dammned if he'd accept the answer from some teen mom in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. He shakes his head. "I don't know."

Lisa starts talking again, doesn't even notice by now that he doesn't have a kid, but it's all pointless chatter to him. He closes his eyes, praying for an answer, but all he can see is fire.

* * *

A/N I know, shortie. Don't forget to leave a review below! Got any requests? :)


	29. Chapter 29: Bad Company

A/N Super thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to my beta who is a scheduling genius. EclipseWing, I laughed so hard at your request. I'm not sure if it'll ever happen, but if it does I'll let you know. And cackle to myself, because it's just ridiculously amazing.

Thank you to everyone who's stuck with it so far. Here's another plot-building chapter for y'all, and hopefully another on Friday.

* * *

John Winchester stumbles through the rain without really feeling it, transfixed on the blaze of lights he can see far ahead, split by the endless torrent of water that falls on his numb limbs and mind.

He's drunk, or close to it, has been since three towns back. It's decades of training and a fierce self-confidence that keeps him on unsteady feet instead of pressed against the asphalt, and the light he sees ahead is a beacon, his journey coming closer to ending with every step he takes.

It's empty, should be at the hour it is, but his gaze locks on Ellen before he can even open the door, her form blurry through the rain-soaked window. He grabs the handle with a trembling hand and enters the Roadhouse, trying to forget the number of years stretching between _then_ and now.

"We're closed!" Ellen calls out, back turned as she cleans glasses at the bar. John walks in a little further, tracking water across the dusty floors.

Ellen must hear him because she turns around again, more irritated this time. "I said we're-"

John smiles slightly as her voice falters, and the hand gripping the glass turns white with the intensity of her grip. "Hey, Ellen."

"John." She says formally, looking him up and down with dark eyes. The cloth moves again, and she casually returns to cleaning the glass. "What are you doing here?"

John shrugs, but even that causes his concentration to slip, and he nearly stumbles into the bar. "I was looking for a beer."

Ellen raises an eyebrow as he blinks sluggishly up at her, smile dropping from his face as the effort becomes too much. He rubs a hand awkwardly across his jaw, skin scraping rough stubble as he struggles to stay upright.

"You sick or something?" Ellen asks, noticing his dizziness. John shakes his head again, but that's a _bad_ idea and suddenly the bar top's under his hands, inches from his face.

"Jesus, you're drunk off your ass, aren't you?" He can hear Ellen say condescendingly above him. He's not surprised by the lack of sympathy, but even the alcohol doesn't really lessen the sting. He hears footsteps and suddenly rough hands are on his shoulders, dragging him onto one of the barstools.

_It's dark and he's cold, but the Impala's not outside the motel and coming back to an empty room worries him more than anything, especially when he can hear noise coming from inside. He backs slowly towards the wall, placing a hand to the window and freezing at what he saw. _

He blinks and suddenly Ellen's in front of him again, snapping a finger in his face. "Hey hey hey. John! Hey!"

"Ellen." He says with a small smile he wishes he were drunk enough to feel, which he really should be getting close to by now-

She spreads hands across the bar top, commanding in a way he'd always secretly respected. "Why the hell are you here, John?"

"Told you, a beer." He says only half honestly, because if he's not drunk enough for her face to still hurt, another drink'll fix that. "Or whiskey. Doesn't really matter."

"You're having coffee, that's what you're getting." Ellen said sternly, moving towards the kitchen door he sees a few feet back. "You touch my alcohol and I'll shoot your balls off, you drunk bastard."

No love lost there. He tries to keep his eyes open as Ellen watches him through the kitchen window, because closing his eyes brings back everything, but it becomes a challenge after a few moments. He wakes to the smell of strong coffee under his nose and finds Ellen in front of him again.

"Thanks." He mumbles, but Ellen just watches him with those scary eyes of hers. The coffee's black, strong enough to melt a spoon and absolutely the way he likes it. He savors the first few sips and comes to the conclusion that whiskey was probably a worse plan.

"How's Jo?" He asks after a second of silence, looking around the bar with feigned interest. "She's, ah, what, seventeen now?"

"Sixteen." Ellen says coldly, lips tight. "But that's not why you came here, is it?"

John smiles ruefully, shaking his head as the smile turns bitter. "No...But humor me. Sixteen? That's a big year."

Ellen looks nonplussed, grabbing a glass and starting to polish again. "Maybe."

John sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. "That's good, that's good."

"Quit beating around the bush."

He sighs again, noting the lack of small talk. "Old friends can't catch up?"

"Not when you're shit-faced drunk in my bar at two in the morning and your name's John Winchester. I wanna know what the hell's goin' on."

There was power in a name. "You ever catch Jo doing something...wrong?"

"I don't see what this has anything-"

"Humor me."

The glass is polished beyond shiny now, but she doesn't set it down, sighing impatiently. "Wrong. Y'mean drugs, or alcohol?" At his nod she continues. "No. I raised her good. None of that stuff under my roof."

"But if you caught her." John proposes. "If you caught her, what would you do?"

She peers at him, leaning forward. "What's this all about, John? Is everything okay with-"

"They're okay. They're good. But I just wanna know." The panic flares again, but he ignores it.

Ellen shrugs. "I'd yell, put her on house arrest and tell her I love her. Best I can do."

It's a short, simple answer, and John wishes it were enough. It's so _Ellen_, down to the bone, fierce on the outside and loving beneath.

_And there's no mistaking the gasps, the sounds of the bed frame rocking against the wall, but it's not the girl he was expecting under Dean, muscled and hazel-eyed. It's someone a lot more, terribly familiar. _

"John?" He looks up at the sound of her voice, realizing his gaze'd slipped downwards to his coffee.

He smiles sadly up at her questioning gaze. "I just...I wish it were that easy, Ellen."

She puts the glass down with a furious sound. "Dammit John, what the hell happened? Is something wrong?"

"Sam and Dean." He gets the names out in one breath, like they're a single unit instead of two people. "They're not...alright."

"Are they hurt?" Ellen asks like a true momma bear, and it's almost better than the alternative, but it's not the answer. "Jesus, John, you gotta give me something to go on here!"

"I was gone."

Ellen stares at him in disbelief. "You're always gone, John."

He sighs, feeling the crushing weight increase. "And that's why it's my fault this happened."

She tries to cut him off, but it's like that's one confession opened a tap. "Maybe it was the road, or the motels, or..."

"What was?" Ellen picks up another glass methodically, but her grip never lessens on the towel.

"I was coming back, this evening. Dean said they were in Minnesota, so that's where I went."

He says it quickly, slowing down at the small flicker of anger in Ellen's eyes at the excuse. "There was noise coming from inside, and I thought something was in their room. I didn't see the Impala, so I figured they must be out somewhere."

Ellen raises an eyebrow, turning the cheap glass over and cleaning the bottom. "And?"

He takes a deep breath, willing the words out. "And they were there. Together."

Ellen frowns as he stops talking, but he can see the edges of realization dawning in her eyes. He doesn't want to believe it any more than she does, God.

"So you're upset cause your boys were in the motel, _together_, where you left them. Tell me what I ain't seeing." She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

He can't. He can't describe it with words, the horror he witnessed. The wreck of their childhood (and it was all his fault) must've been worse than he'd thought, somehow.

"Together." He breathes out harshly. "God, don't make me say it again. _Together_, Ellen, like brothers shouldn't be."

He can see the second she gets it, the slight widening of the eyes, the way her fingers fall lifeless around the glass in her hand. She almost drops it, resolve tightening at the last second. "You're not saying what I think you're saying."

John doesn't reply, staring lifelessly at his cup of coffee and remembering why he'd gotten drunk in the first place. Ellen sets the glass down with a quiet gasp, like the realization's too much, and he can almost see what's she's thinking as her gaze unfocused for just a second.

Two boys, two little boys holding hands through everything. Sleeping on each other's shoulders, never more than a few feet away from the other, and fiercely protective like they'd never seen before.

Ellen finally breaks the silence, voice unsteady. "How long?"

John shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"Did they see you?"

_He freezes as Dean moves even faster, face pressed into his brother's neck as Sam writhes underneath him with a groan. Their eyes meet across Dean's flesh, and everything crashes around him as his youngest smiles, sweet and victorious over the body of his brother. _

John clears his throat, shaking the memory away. "Sam did."

"Jesus." Ellen leans against the bar, fingers pale against the wood. "Jesus. What the hell are you gonna do if they don't know?"

John frowns. "Know what?"

"That you know. About them."

Jesus. "I'll...figure something out."

Ellen shakes her head. "You have to separate them."

"I don't think it's possible."

He receives a sharp glare. "I don't care what you think. It's what needs to happen."

John shakes his head again, and a bitter laugh escapes his lips. "No, it's not possible. They won't split up. Not ever. They're already this...sick."

He and Ellen both look away at the word, casting awkward glances over the countertops. His coffee's cold now, but he can't find it in himself to be disappointed. Ellen wordlessly breaks out the whiskey, grabbing a bottle from the top shelf and two of her over-shined glasses.

Ellen turns to him after she downs the first shot. "Last time Sam was here, he was, what, five? Too young to remember."

"Yeah?" John says gruffly, absent. Ellen smiles slightly, gesturing at the video games in the corner.

"He went right by those and sat down next to Dean, didn't wanna play or anything. Too busy being smart, I guess."

John glances up as she continues. "He told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be a superhero when he grew up." They both chuckle a little, like it's that simple to forget and remember, but her smile wavers slightly at the thought. "Just like his brother."

"Dammit." John swears under his breath, grabbing the bottle and filling his glass to the brim, taking the shot with barely a flinch.

"Maybe you're wrong." Ellen finishes her shot and reaches for the bottle. "Maybe you were just...drunk."

She's starting to get tipsy. "I wish." He says, and he means it. He means it more than he can say.

"You got a place to stay tonight?" She asks after a second, tipping the glass a little, both of them tracking the spill of the amber liquid over the lip of the glass.

He pauses. "I don't know."

"You do...if you need it. And you're not driving like this."

John sighs. "Thank you, Ellen." And she nods at him, like the secret's gone, a bad few minutes and nothing else, but he's already moving towards the door.

It's more than that, and nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

A/N Liked what you read? Leave a review! :) Thanks.


	30. Chapter 30: It's All There In The Gospel

A/N So so so sorry about the non-existent chapter on Friday. Real life got in the way again. And this chapter's going up later than usual, too. Jeez.

For owlgirl1998 who requested Chuck, and for my amazing beta. This is the first part, and you know how the game goes. I'll post the other half sooner rather than later, sometime this week. Possibly sooner if the reviews go up:) (cringes)

Thanks as always for being awesome. Please enjoy.

* * *

It's bright out, but the chill catches him before the sun's heat does. He eyes Sam as they walk down the sidewalk together, jealous of the always-constant warmth his brother seems to possess. He doesn't look behind him, but he can feel the presence of the man following them like a phantom itch between his shoulder blades, and it's _wrong_.

Dean pauses slightly as the door opens in front of them, keeping a steady pace as they enter the store. Sam's gaze catches his quickly as they pass into the back rooms, revealing a mix of concern and delight in his eyes.

"Can I help you boys?" The man at the counter asks as they pass him, face hopeful, as if they're his first customers. "We've got some-"

Sam shakes his head politely at him, expression dropping into a plastic, meaningless smile. "Just looking, thanks."

"You see something you like, just let me-"

They cut the man off in their hurried pace for the back door, not caring enough for pretenses. Dean glances over his shoulder again only to find the same man behind them, browsing the gag gifts in the corner with his head down.

"Definitely got a tail." He whispers to Sam without moving his lips. His brother nods, hazel eyes serious.

"What are you thinking?"

Dean shrugs slightly, a grin flashing across his features. "What are _you_ thinking?"

Sam's smile is contagious as they lean against the back wall, edging towards the door. "Tail's gotta go. But I wanna know who'd be smart enough to tack a PI on the great Dean Winchester, that's for sure."

He sends Sam a glare at the tone as his brother breaks off into laughter. "How'd you know he was a PI?"

Sam wrinkles his nose, waving a hand at the investigator as they duck behind a shelf. "It's the suits, man. Enough said."

They wait for another customer to open the front door before exiting, ditching the jackets they were wearing behind a trash can thirty feet away from the door. Dean wiggles his eyebrows at his brother as his shirt rides up, revealing a stripe of tanned skin.

"You're ridiculous." Sam mutters, but there's a small smile on his face as they hurry down the bricked pavement. Turning left at the corner, they take another fast left into the first alley they see, sliding into the shadows at the mouth of the passageway.

"Hey, I'm only human." Dean says, pursing his lips at the garbage around them. "Or a witch."

He nods at the discarded Halloween decorations littering the alley with a leer at Sam, who remains silent. "Face it, I'd be a sexy witch."

Sam snorts and shakes his head, propping a hand up against the alley wall as they wait for their tail to pass. Dean shuffles his feet a little, impatient and edgy. Humor aside, a mark on them at this point's not good news, not at all.

After a few minutes of waiting, a figure passes by in a cheap suit, throwing shadows across the sidewalk. Sam's in motion almost before Dean can see him move, grabbing the man by the shoulders and pulling him into the shadows in the flash of an eye. He throws a hand over the PI's mouth, muffling the surprised shout the man releases as they struggle.

Dean watches as Sam pins the man to the bricks, elbow across his throat and knife flashing silver in the low light. The shy humor from before is gone, replaced with the same instinct he can feel thrumming under his own skin. This man was dangerous, a _threat_ to them.

"Who are you?" Sam hisses, knife pressed against the man's throat, dragging silence from the terrified man. "Answer me!"

The man's eyes bulge, fear palpable. Dean restrains a disgusted snort as a stain appears at the front of the man's pants, backing up a few feet and letting Sam handle this one. He's not the dangerous factor in this situation, not at all.

His brother sends him a glare but doesn't relent, digging his elbow even harder into the PI's skin.

"I'm gonna count to three, man." Sam threatens. "You get me to three, I carve your skin off slowly while my partner here holds your mouth shut. You get me?"

Dean shakes his head at the over-the-top threats, but it seems to work. The man nods as much as the knife lets him, and after a moment Sam removes the blade from his throat.

"M-my name is Josh. Josh Daeger."

Sam raises his eyebrows, sarcastic delight spreading across his features. The kid's gotta be no more than twenty, wide blue eyes staring up at Sam like he knows exactly who he is, flinching slightly as his brother speaks.

"Howdy Josh. You gonna tell me why you were following us?"

Blue eyes go wide as Sam wipes the blade off on his t-shirt, slow and menacing. "I was—I was hired."

He almost feels bad for the kid as Sam shakes his head, like he can't believe how slow the kid is. "We figured."

"We wanna know who." Dean interjects, crossing his arms and sending a clear message to the kid. He cracks his knuckles a second later, sending Sam a smirk as the kid flinches again. It's almost adorable.

"A man. Some man!" The PI says hurriedly, panicked. "Carver something. Carver…_Please._ This is my first job."

Sam raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "You don't know the guy who hired you?"

The kid swallows noticeably, face paling even further. "Carver, Carver…Edlund. I think that was his name. Please don't kill me. Please."

He looks at Sam, who shrugs slightly, eyes still on the kid.

"You got an address?"

* * *

"Carver Edlund. Huh."

Dean shrugs at the name, hands gripping the wheel of the Impala tightly for a second to quell the anger rising in his gut. "Sucky name."

"You think it's real?"

"I think whoever it is was smart enough to track us. That's what worries me."

Sam's expressionless when he glances at him, glancing out the window as he drives a little too fast down the suburban streets. "You're angry."

"Damn straight I'm angry. No one gets the drop on us, especially not some wet behind the ears PI."

His brother shrugs. "So we find him and talk to him. See what he knows."

Dean nods briskly, pulling the Impala to a crawl as they park in front of a row of duplexes. Sam points out the address and he parks, shoving his baby's door open roughly in his anger, wincing internally.

He can hear Sam's hurried footsteps behind him but doesn't care. Sam'd always been more of a reactive person, willing to wait on the sidelines and watch for clues, but that wasn't Dean. He'd face this threat head on.

A quick knock and a ring of the doorbell brings footsteps to the door. Dean crosses his arms and turns on his best glare, eyes narrowing as the door opens a moment later.

"Carver Edlund?"

A scruffy looking man opens the door, eyes swollen and downcast. He blinks blearily up at them, eyes widening in terror as their faces seem to register.

"Jesus-"

Dean catches the door as the man tries to slam it closed, rushing forward into the duplex. Edlund backs away frantically, knocking over a table in his haste to put distance between them. "Jesus Christ, oh holy shit, holy shit-"

"Are you Carver Edlund?" Dean roars, gun out and pointed directly at the man's face.

Sam taps his shoulder, touch bringing him out of his anger momentarily. "Dean. Don't you think you're overreacting…a little? We said we were gonna talk first, not shoot."

Dean narrows his eyes at the man trembling on the floor. "I wanna know what this little fucker knows about you and me." He glares at Edlund, who pales visibly.

"W-who are you guys?" The man asks in a trembling voice, eyes wide. "What do you want?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Oh, so you don't recognize us?" The man looks away as Dean continues. "Because a little birdy told us you placed a tail sometime in the last few days. Knew exactly where to find us, actually."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam's voice reaches him across the room. "Dean."

He doesn't take his eyes off Edlund.

"What?"

"Come check this out."

Reluctantly, he glances over to where Sam's standing. A large whiteboard spans the far wall, covered in writing and newspaper clippings. Dean feels another wave of pure anger well up as his eyes land on Sam's mugshot, along with a couple dozen other pictures of the two of them in various positions. His breath catches at a telephoto lens capture of Sam, naked and strung out on a bed, unconscious.

This time Sam doesn't stop him from pointing the gun at Edlund, anger mirroring his own. "You wanna explain your collage over there? Say 'I don't know' one more time. I fucking dare you."

Edlund straightens slightly, wrapping a hand around his trembling knees. "It's a compilation for a book I'm writing. About…you."

Dean spins, sending Sam a sunny smile. "Hear that, Sammy? I'm book-worthy material. Always told you I'd end up famous."

Sam looks thoughtful, gazing down at the cowering man. "Your real name isn't Edlund, is it?"

The man shakes his head. "It's a pen name. My real name is Chuck."

"Chuck?" Sam looks pointedly at Dean. "As in, the famous Winchester profiler who got fired a few years ago? That Chuck?"

Dean frowns at the name, suspicious. "He's_ FBI_?"

"Was." Chuck interrupts from the floor. "I got fired."

"Lemme guess…" Dean says, finally noticing the bottles strewn about the dump around him. "Drinking problem?"

Chuck looks almost defensive. "I had…issues."

"Still do." Dean mutters. Sam glares at him, taking a step towards Chuck, hands lowered.

"Why are you having us followed?"

The smaller man looks terrified for a second. "I needed more info. What I had access to wasn't enough any more. I needed compilation material."

Dean interjects. "So why not turn us into the police when you found us?"

Chuck looks away again, and an uncomfortable silence falls in the room. Dean exchanges a look with Sam, a little surprised.

"So it's about money." Sam says after a minute. "You want to sell our story."

Chuck doesn't look up, eyes hidden. "I'm not in it for the money. It's important."

Dean whistles. "It's a big pay-out, all those secrets, isn't it? All those dark dark secrets only the profilers seem to know. Big bucks, Chucky."

A flinch. "Don't call me that."

Sam sends him a look, but he doesn't care. The nerve of this man, to bottle their story up and sell it to the highest bidder…

"So what, our lives are just a game to you?"

Chuck glances up, gaze unfocused. "I don't control you. I don't think I could."

"And yet you're selling us anyways."

The man stands up on unsteady feet. "I'm not _selling_ you!"

Dean inevitably flinches towards Sam as Chuck wavers on his feet, protective instinct overriding his anger in an instant. Sam rolls his eyes, backing up a few steps.

"So what are you doing? Getting off on some obscene, bloody fantasy?"

Chuck squares his shoulders, facing Dean. "I'm giving the public what they deserve to know. About you." His eyes stray almost reluctantly to the naked photo of Sam, glazing over slightly.

"See, I don't think that." Dean walks forward, almost uncomfortably close to the other man. "I think you're curious. I think you wonder what we're like. You know, off the pages. That's why you hired the PI."

Chuck swallows, staying motionless. "I hired the PI for information. You were never supposed to know about him."

Sam snorts behind him. "We're the freaking Winchesters. Did you really think you were gonna hide a crappy tail like that from us?"

"Besides," Dean says, pacing circles around the smaller man's motionless frame. "I think you did it on purpose."

"I didn't."

"You did. You wanted us to catch you-so you could observe us." His lips curve obscenely around the word. "More info, am I right, Sam?"

His brother shrugs, glancing at the papers strewn around them. A computer hums almost unnoticeably under piles of notes. "There's easier ways to get rich. Like your first job."

Chuck shuffles his feet a little, glancing around. "I didn't like my first job."

"Too much law and order for you? I feel the same way." Dean says enticingly, still walking circles around the man. "Tell you what. You put the presses on hold indefinitely, and I'll give you something even better. Something I think you want more."

"What's that?" Chuck breathes out unevenly, cheeks flushing just as Dean'd predicted they would.

Sam catches his eyes over the other man's head, smile curling at the corners.

"The perfect story."

* * *

A/N Have a request? Love Chuck? Let me know what you think! :)


	31. Chapter 31: Axis

A/N Coming to you late and in partial form. I guess I've made it a habit to split stories into three parts instead of two. Many apologies to the awesome owlgirl1998 and everyone who reviewed. You guys are awesome, and the next part should be up on Friday, which coincidentally (wiggles eyebrows) is my birthday. Gotta hate real life sometimes.

Thanks as always to my beta. You've shaped me more than you know:)

* * *

"Why are we here?"

Dean puts a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing it in warning. "Breathe, Chuck. I don't need you freaking out on me."

Sam shifted slightly behind them, always on the lookout. A dark street lay out in front of them, shadows hiding more than the light could reveal. The road ended in a large park, bordering woods and a large river. It was perfect hunting grounds, and the best place to start.

"Motive and opportunity."

Chuck frowns at the words, turning slightly to look back at Dean. "Sorry?"

"That's why we're here. The two parts of murder. Method and opportunity." Dean waves a hand down the shadowed street, grin feral. "You never studied this in profiler school?"

Sam snorts behind him, but Chuck looks embarrassed, if a little bit angry. "I was in the secretarial pool, technically."

Dean shrugs, uncaring. "Sucks to be you."

Sam leans back against the light post, eyes luminous in the soft light. He watches Dean cautiously, and he can tell his brother's curious, but willing to stay silent. Another mark on the long list of differences between them, it seemed.

"So where do I start?"

He waves a hand down the street. "You have the opportunity; a dark street, not a lot of people. No cameras, and us. So, what's the motive?"

"Instruction." His brother chimes in from behind him. Chuck looks confused, running a hand back through curly hair.

"Well?" Dean asks after a second of silence, smiling to himself as the man's eyes glaze over just the slightest. There's desire hidden in there somewhere, curling and twisting underneath the tremulous exterior. A little push and the kid would be slitting throats himself.

"Curiosity."

"Best reason I ever heard." Dean says, grabbing Chuck's arm and pulling him out onto the street. "Let's get cracking."

Sam follows silently as they make their way down the concrete, only a step away and quieter than he should be with a bag full of shovels. Dean resists the urge to check behind him as he directs Chuck towards passing figures. The kid jumps at every person, annoyingly eager in a way that sends alarm bells ringing in Dean's head. He can see the same trepidation in Sam's.

"That one."

Dean shakes his head at the hooded figure leaning against the brick wall. "Drug dealer. You'd get your ass handed to you before you could blink."  
Chuck looks almost disappointed. "But I thought you guys would help, y'know, with that."

Dean shrugs. "Not the right target. He'd be missed. You want someone no one'll notice is gone. Think a little bit harder. This is a patient game."

Chuck's eyes move quickly, scanning the street and its inhabitants. Nobody blinks as they settle against an alley opening, waiting. And Dean feels it the second Chuck gets it, the second his eyes catch and everything _clicks_.

"Him."

The boy can't be more than seventeen, but the slouching and the tight clothing make up for it. He stands unobtrusively on the corner, visible only to those who know to look for him, weary-eyed under dark mascara.

"You make it a habit to pick up male prostitutes?"

Chuck frowns at his tone, and Dean has to resist the urge to smack the expression off his face. "Jesus, are you always this picky? Is it gonna work or not?"

Dean backs a few feet away from him, drawing them back into the shadows of the storefront with his hands raised, the flash of hate in Chuck's eyes instinctively sending him in front of Sam, blocking him from the other man.

There were no repressed homosexual urges there or anything. Jesus.

"It'll work fine. Sam, get ready." He points at Chuck. "Walk over to the park and wait for us there. Don't draw attention to yourself."

Chuck does as he says, and with a belated sigh, he joins Sam. The kid across the street's already eyeing them up, t shirt riding up as he leans against the light pole like Sam had before.

"How much?"

The kid raises an eyebrow at them, eyes roving up and down their figures, their clothes. "You clean?"

Dean crosses his arms, staring the kid down. "As a whistle. How _much_?"

He names his price and it's fair, almost unbelievably so. He grabs his wallet, hiding it from the street's view as he gives the kid half up front.

"Where?" The hooker asks, folding the money tucking it away in a pocket. Dean points to the park, and it must be a popular spot because the kid doesn't even ask.

Sam flanks him, duffel bag disappearing behind his back, and they make it to the park in a few minutes, walking as casually as possible. He spots Chuck in the far corner of the playground, looking out of place and eager all in the same moment.

"Oh, I don't do foursomes." The hooker says when he spots Chuck. "You can take your money back, man. It ain't good no more."

Dean meets Sam's eyes over the kid's head and with another stifled sigh they spring into action. He reaches out and clamps a hand over the kid's mouth before he can shout out, Sam slamming an elbow into his temple at the same time.

The hooker crumples into Sam's hands, and with a curious look from his brother, Sam drags the body into the bushes.

"Holy shit!" Chuck hisses, racing over with a wild expression on his face. "You killed him!"

"No, that's what this is for." Dean reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out his gun and holding it in front of him. "Up and at 'em, cowboy."

"You're not serious."

Dean smirks, tucking it away. "Course not. There's no silencer and we're out in the open. Did they tell you we were stupid?"

"Basically, yeah."

Dean shakes his head in disgust. "Incestuous hicks my ass. Okay, maybe the incest part, but discriminating against me cause I didn't go to college? Downright unfair."

Chuck's eyes widen at his words. "Does that mean-"

"Dean, a little help over here?"

Sam's got the prostitute's arms in a hold, but the kid must've been heavier than he thought. He walks over and grabs the unconscious kid, slinging the arms over their shoulders like they were supporting a drunken friend.

"Now what?" Chuck asks curiously, looking towards the trees at the left. "We go to the woods and hide the body there?"

"Got it in one." Dean grunts, because the kid really is heavier than he thought. "Let's go."

They manage to support most of the kid's weight as they travel down the forest path, checking periodically for signs of consciousness. Chuck looks wary as the last of the manufactured light fades, but the spark of excitement remains constant. Dean questions him on the way to the middle of the trees.

"So what were we missing before?"

Chuck looks up like he's answering a teacher's question. "Well, you said we couldn't do it out in the open, and we didn't have a silencer."

Dean nods. "So...?" He prompts.

"So we were missing...cover, and somewhere quiet. Ora silencer."

Dean cocks his head towards his brother. "Sammy, you bring a silencer?"

Sam nods. "Back pocket."

Dean reaches over and pulls it free, hands brushing Sam's ass on the way. Chuck startles at he tosses it towards him, but his fingers close around the metal before he can drop it. He gazes at it for a long second, almost enraptured.

"It's...not what I imagined it."

Dean snorts, heaving the hooker a little higher over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Good thing we're here."

_Here_ is a small clearing in the center of the woods, far from prying eyes and fences in heavily by maples and pines. Autumn leaves layer the floor, covered in rain and dirt.

Dean pulls his arms free and backs up, helping Sam lay the body down to the forest floor. He pulls his gun free with a grin, showing it to Chuck. He rattles of a list of details and descriptions, only to find a blank stare. The words might not mean anything to him, but the point is clear. The gun is a weapon, and before them, their prey.

"Silencer goes on here," Dean screws it on, pointing out the grooves in the metal. "Henceforth, no sound."

"Yeah, yeah, just give it to me." Chuck tries to grab it from him, hands drawing short as Dean pulls it away.

"Wait a second. We need a plan."

The other man looks baffled. "A plan? I thought that was what we had already!"

Dean glares at him, the predator side of him noting the difference in the other man. The shaky voice and hands were gone, replaced by something a little more familiar. "I mean exit strategy. Where are you gonna hide the body, idiot?"

Chuck's face drops, voice faltering. "I...didn't think."

"Exactly." Dean opens the bag Sam had put down. "Which is why we did."

* * *

A/N Like Chuck? Have a request? Leave a review, tell me what you thought! :)


	32. Chapter 32: Only To Fall

A/N The third piece for owlgirl1998, and every other awesome person who's reading. I realize last chapter was a lot more filler than intended, but hopefully this'll make up for it. Your feedback is what keeps me going, even through computer crashes and crappy days.

Super thanks to if-llamas-could-fly for writing me the most heartbreaking fic ever for my birthday. To another great year of friendship!

For my beta, who rocks the world and still manages to take care of my crazy problems.

* * *

Chuck watches as they dig the grave, and Dean doesn't miss the way his eyes slide over Sam's body, his own, when he thinks they're not looking. Every shovelful tossed back and his eyes find the other man's, attentive and somehow greedy in their silence.

Sam puts up without protest, though Dean can see the irritation in his posture as Chuck's eyes linger a little too obviously on the lines of his back. If he didn't think the kid could handle a shovel, he would've made Chuck dig the grave, most likely alone.

They finish after what seems like hours, down to six feet with an ease that only comes with determination and experience. Sam shoves the last pile of dirt over his shoulder and breathes heavily, leaning against Dean's shoulder for a second before moving to climb out.

"We done?" Chuck asks, voice cracking on the last syllable. It doesn't fool Dean this time.

"For now. Still gotta fill the hole in."

Chuck nods. "Oh yeah. That."

The glazed over look returns, and Dean has to restrain himself from taking a step back. Bloodlust he understands, but the things he sees in Chuck's eyes are _sick_-as if he should be talking.

"He awake yet?" Dean calls to Sam, boosting himself out of the grave with a push and walking over. The cold dirt smears his hands, digging under his fingernails like clay.

"Waking up." Sam murmurs when he's close, shadowy form standing over the boy's body. The prostitute twists slightly, eyes moving back and forth under his eyelids.

Dean purses his lips, rubbing the dirt off his hands and bending over to grasp the boy's wrists. "Go time."

His brother grabs the legs and they drag the unconscious kid closer to the grave. Chuck watches with narrowed eyes, hands clenched tightly together as they lay the body down next to the hole.

"So...how do we do this?" Chuck asks, and behind the tremor in his voice Dean can hear shrewd calculation. "You're not the type to bury people alive."

Dean shrugs. "You only live once, man."

A snort sounds behind him, but Sam doesn't say anything. Sighing internally, Dean retrieves the gun with the silencer from where he'd placed it in the bag. He walks back to the grave slowly, letting every ounce of power move through him until it's apparent in every move, every breath.

"You ever fire a gun, Chuck?" He asks, holding the gun up in a smooth motion, moonlight reflecting off the metal. "Ever kill anyone?"

"No." Chuck says absently, staring at the gun. "Can I-"

Dean pulls the gun away before he can grab at it again. "There's a special relationship between a man and a gun. Am I right, Sam?"

His brother rolls his eyes, but Chuck doesn't even bother to glance back at him. Dean narrows his eyes slightly, continuing the grandstanding, enjoying it only for its ridiculousness.

"I mean, it's kind of crazy right? That with a click of a trigger, I can..._end _someone. " He mimes pulling the trigger, aiming at a nearby tree. "Completely erase them."

He holds the gun across his palms, capturing Chuck's gaze with a simple slide of his hand. "This..._thing_...kills people. And it's the most beautiful _thing_ I've ever seen."

He catches Sam's eyes over Chuck's head. "Besides Sam, of course."

Chuck's eyes flicker at that, finally finding Sam's shadowy figure a few feet behind him. He licks his lips. "It's...beautiful."

Dean feels a wave of irritation but clamps down on it, spinning to face their hostage with a barely contained growl. He lifts the boy off the ground, holding him up by the shoulder right above the grave. Sam joins him, holding the unconscious hooker up as he returns to Chuck.

"It's simple." Dean reiterates, pointing at a spot just shy of the boy's heart with the gun. "I want you to watch."

Chuck nods furiously. It's what he's there for, really, to _watch_, maybe to understand, but Dean can't help feeling the night was never in their benefit from the start.

"Alright." Chuck breathes, pupils huge in the moonlight.

Sam moves his grip to the kid's neck, holding his body awkwardly out of the line of fire. Dean takes aim at the solar plexus, focusing for a second before depressing the trigger.

With a muffled spit the bullet slams into the boy, knocking him back into Sam's grasp. Chuck gasps almost comically loud, curiosity betrayed by the half-dozen steps he immediately takes forwards.

"Do you see that?" Dean lowers the gun, pointing at the bloodstains as he places the weapon to the side."Blood."

"Blood." Chuck repeats in a whisper, moving forwards slowly, hand outstretched.

"Every pump of the heart pushes him closer." Dean smiles ruefully, shaking his head. "The thing that keeps him _alive_ is the thing that kills him. How's that for irony?"

Chuck barely seems to notice them, pressing hands into the dying hooker's shirts, grasping the blood-covered clothing with shaking hands. "He's still breathing."

"I don't think for long."

Chuck grasps the hooker's shoulders and shoves Sam aside, gazing at the boy's face as more and more blood soaks the clothes between the two of them. Dean stands silently nearby, counting the hooker's breaths as his brother's arm brushes his.

It's a chilling silence, broken by the sound of wet coughs as the prostitute struggles to consciousness, only to slump in the older man's grasp, for all purposes dead.

The second the boy's eyes close Chuck shoves him forward with a gasp, balancing on the edge of the grave, arms still around the younger man's form. After a long second he lets go, body falling, echoing with a dull thump as it hits dirt six feet below.

Dean watches cautiously as Chuck stands above the grave, arms still partially outstretched towards the dead boy below. He looked mournful, head bent forward, as if an unknown price had been paid, some forgotten promise forgiven. After a long minute he speaks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion.

"I think I understand now." He says softly, head still inclined. "I get it. I get..._all _of it."

Chuck pauses, as if considering. His head turns as he moves to face them, and Dean looses the final shot of the night.

The bullet takes him right between the eyes, sending him to teeter in the edge of the same grave he'd shoved the unlucky hooker down before. A shocked pair of eyes find his before the other man falls, toppling face-down onto the body far below them with a sickeningly final sound.

After a long moment Sam snorts, shaking his head in humorous disbelief. "And what a story that was."

Dean shrugs, placing the gun away and grabbing a shovel from the ground with feigned nonchalance covering the steady burn of anger in his veins. "He got what he wanted."

Sam wordlessly takes the other shovel, piling dirt onto the bodies with a soft sigh. Dean leans against the metal for a second, considering the hole before them.

"You ever think we'll end up like that?" He asks Sam after a pause, taking a deep breath as the strung-out images from Chuck's house fly across his mind. "You know, _sick? _Not all there?"

His brother snorts again, tossing hair out of his eyes. "Not a chance."

"Huh? Why's that?"

Sam smiles. "Cause we're not bat-shit crazy, for starters."

"Obviously." Dean smiles at his brother, oddly happy as Sam's low laughter surrounds them both. He never knew how much he'd missed the sound of his brother's voice until now. "Not sure how sane you are without beauty rest though, Samantha. It's getting late."

Sam swats at him irritably with shovel. "We've got a hole to fill, jerk."

He smiles sleazily at his brother, picking his shovel up. "Bitch, you know I'm-"

"_Two bodies_, Dean."

* * *

A/N Thank you so much for reading! Requests and reviews and hugely appreciated, and don't forget to be awesome!


	33. Chapter 33: Devil On The Run

A/N For my beta, who convinces me not to ditch this story when I hit a bump, and to everyone who reviewed, because you guys make my day. Literally. I smile when I see your comments.

I was muddling around with the idea of Bobby, and came up with this as a follow-up to a few chapters ago. I would love to write more, so tell me what you think! :)

* * *

It's grey the day Bobby sees them again, smoky and dark, threatening snow and god knows what else.

He works on the cars out back half-heartedly, casting curious glances at the sky as gust after gust of wind rock the trees and rusted stacks of cars around him. A bird cries off to the left, low and mournful like summer's a tangible thing, ripped away from all of them so suddenly.

After a few minutes he hears it; a low, rumbling sound of an old car, a car well-cared for. He's come to recognize it almost instantly, the rumble-purr none of the brand new "eco" engines could ever strive to produce. It's beautiful, so enveloping that for a second he places down his tools, entranced by the sound of another man's car.

He breaks out of his reverie as brakes squeal, and the rumbling of the engine turns sour-sounding before cutting out altogether, accompanied by the sound of raised voices.

"-only safe place." He hears on a snatch of wind, hands already darting to the knife at his belt, itching for the shotgun propped up against the wall inside. Quietly, he creeps around the stacks of scrap metal and boxes, heart thumping wildly at what he sees.

"Yeah, because who's gonna be looking for us in fucking _South Dakota_?" A taller man slurs slightly, propped up against the first speaker's shoulder, face hidden as he tucks it into his companion's neck. "I cry every time you say we have to come here."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He first man says, stopping to hoist the other man's arm over his shoulder, a determined look in his eyes. Bobby freezes in fear as the face _clicks_, and his fear jumps from mild panic to _terror_.

It's _them_.

The first man makes sure his companion is settled before tilting his head up towards the front of Bobby's house, profile catching the grey light, outlining the cruel slant of his jaw, the sharp bones of his face.

"Singer, get your ass out here! NOW!"

Bobby shudders as his name is called, instinctively curling back into the wall of the shed. The devil himself would sound nicer, less commanding.

"SINGER!" He hears again, and then the sound of a gun being cocked. "NOW!"

He bites his lip and swings away from the building, forcing himself into the light and the other man's rage. The man flinches towards him as Bobby steps on a branch, gun immediately pointed at him.

"Jesus-" He manages, hands in the air in front of him.

"Oh I wish." The taller man mumbles, still slumped against the other man's shoulder. "He'd be less of a mother hen."

"You shut your mouth, bitch." The shorter man orders, green eyes glittering with anger as he turns back to Bobby. "I'm calling in that favor. _Now_."

Bobby takes a step back. "A favor-"

"Yes, a favor." The man grits his teeth. "I need your house and I need you to stop talking. Open the house, get me bandages and start boiling water."

Bobby blanches. "And you just think-"

"I'm not _thinking_, I'm _doing_." He shifts the taller man on his shoulder, glaring at Bobby and raising the gun again. "Open the door before I shoot you, old man. I've got promises I don't have to keep."

He stumbles back, racing up to the porch on shaky legs, barely glancing back at what he's pretty sure is a sixty-seven Chevy Impala-and a sweet one at that-too worried with the gun pointed at his head, and even more so the desperation in the blonde man's eyes.

He opens the door just in time for the shorter man to pass him, arms full with the longer-haired man like he isn't carrying at least two hundred pounds of muscle. He follows Bobby into the study and places him down gently on the couch, lifting one leg and the the other gingerly to rest on the edge of the armrest.

"You got a first aid kit?" The shorter man asks.

Bobby points. "First drawer in the closet."

"Alright. Start boiling water."

Bobby takes a second to glance at the almost-unconscious man on the couch before snapping to, perplexed and more than a little terrified. He was silly enough to think it was a dream, and even more foolish to drink away those same thoughts, but them being here-their _existence_-brings back memories even years of drinking can't put to rest.

Once the water's on and he's found some clean rags in the back of the linen drawer he finds his way back to the study. Raising an eyebrow, he finds the shorter man expertly removing a bandage around the other man's waist, prodding a nasty-looking set of stitches around a built torso.

The words escape before he can think. "The hell happened to him?"

The green-eyed man sends him a nasty looking glare but doesn't speak, tying off a fresh bandage with his teeth. "Sam, don't move."

"I ain't...movin'..." The taller man-Sam-slurs, eyes still closed. "I _sleepin'_, Dean. Good."

"Jesus." Dean murmurs, grabbing the excess bandages and throwing them to the side. "You got the bandages?"

It takes him a second to realize he's talking to him. "They're boiling."

"Good, we'll need them in a while. Your crappy-ass bandages won't hold for long."

"Well, excuse me not having first-class medical equipment." Bobby snaps irritably. "Break into someone else's house next time!"

Dean looks at him, apparently speechless in rage, eyes widening. He opens his mouth, only to be cut off by Sam, who slings an arm across Dean's lap.

"We didn't break in, silly. You opened the door for us."

Bobby squints at the smiling man, a far cry from the intimidating presence from before. "He high or something?"

Dean nods briskly, washing his hands with a sanitized wipe from the kit. "Ever since the hospital. Shot him full of drugs and shit."

"So why the hell are you here?"

Sam shifts slightly from his position on the couch, hand scrabbling weakly at the leather coat Dean's wearing. "I like him, Dean. Can we-can we keep him?"

Dean pushes his friend's (brother?) hands off of him. "We're here cause we need a place to stay, and you happen to possess one of those."

"Plus, we _totally _helped you bury a body." Sam points out ever-so-helpfully from the couch, unable to see the flinch the words garner from Bobby. Dean does, running a hand through his hair, the first legitimate sign of stress he'd seen from him at all.

"Look, you're in the middle of nowhere. No one's coming out here for us. We just need a few days to rest, and we'll be out of your hair. Promise negated, and all."

Bobby sighs, rubbing his hands together nervously. "I don't like this. At all."

"Yeah, well my brother almost died last night, so I don't really care what you like." The other man snaps, gaze instantly flicking over to the other man's slumped form on the couch, a touch of worry softening his glare. Bobby raises his hands defensively, backing a few steps up.

"Just a few days."

Dean nods tiredly, and Bobby can see the bags under his eyes, even from a few steps back. "Just a few days."

Sam lets out a loud snore, and the discussion that wasn't really ever a discussion comes to an irrefutable close.

* * *

Eventually he helps Dean move the kid upstairs to the guest room, tentative about touching the brother and keeping his hand. He wouldn't be surprised if the protective instincts he sees in Dean's eyes turned even further, lashing out behind the restrained manner he hides them behind.

He notices the scratches and marks around Sam's wrists when they're moving him upstairs, circling his wrists and deeper than comfortable. He shouldn't ask-the less he knows while they're here, the better-but he's curious, curious why refuge is a long forgotten promise in South Dakota and not some motel room or inn.

"How'd he get like this?" He prods when they're settling the taller man into bed, voice hushed. The other man gazes steadily above his shoulder, not meeting his eyes.

"He was an idiot."

Bobby shrugs. "Lotsa people are idiots."

"He took on a group of people he shouldn't have." Dean sends a glare his way, voice dropping even lower. "He made a bad move because _he_ thought he could do it. _He_ decided risking his life was no problem."

Bobby tilts his head at the pure anger he hears in his tons. "That how he got tortured?"

Dean's face goes white instantly, eyes widening. "What do you know about torture?"

Bobby nods at the sleeping boy's wrists, voice low. "Enough to recognize it when it happens."

Dean shakes his head, voice hollow. "Not enough. Trust me. They did things to him, that-"

Bobby looks away as his voice cracks, unsure how to comfort the (possible) killer who'd broken into his home. "I've got food downstairs when you're ready, if you need to eat."

Dean shakes his head again, eyes downcast, walking to the door and holding it open as a clear dismissal. He slams it behind him, the empty space where _goodnight _should be filling with the sounds of the bed creaking, and an exhausting weight being partially lifted.

* * *

Bobby hears it when he walks up the stairs later that night, tired from the newest bottle he'd found and the untouched mac and cheese he'd put a strange amount of effort into making on the stove, not the microwave. The wind picked up again hours ago, catching the edges of the house like an instrument, playing all the creaks and howls like the most under appreciated symphony ever.

And under that, the low mumblings of a voice. He pauses on the stair, body going completely still as he listens to the mumbled nonsense. It's one voice, low and broken.

_Dean, y'gotta, you have to-_

He goes even quieter, leaning in to the wall adjacent, so undeniably curious it's painful. _Why _are they here? Who _are _these brothers?"

_No...no, Dean, please... _Sam mutters, and Bobby can hear the squeaky bed frame rock, like the man's twisting, tossing and turning in the throes of some terrifying nightmare.

_NO! JESS! NO!_

The whole house seems to shake, vibrating with the terrible scream Sam lets out. Bobby winces as something hits the wall, ducking into the shadows a second later as footsteps sound.

_Dean-_ Hoarse, like he'd screamed for days on end. _Dean..._

_I got you, Sammy. I got you, little brother. _

Bobby pushes an ear closer to the wall as the shifting starts up again, and the bed frame protests the movement with a squeak. A low noise sounds, like a hand sliding over flesh, a hand tousling hair. And again, _Dean,_ sounding like a plea, like a whimper.

The second he gets it, the noises dissolve to something more basic, something instinctively comforting and wrong wrong _wrong _to him. But it can't be. Because they're _brothers. _They said they were brothers-

The door is open just a little, a shaft of light dividing the dark room. He flinches away from tangled flesh, gut roiling. He leaves just as the first hoarse scream sounds, wishing he'd never looked in the first place.

* * *

A/N Got a request? Want more Bobby? Wanna just tell me about your day? Leave a review below! :)


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